Paganini's Legacy
by PoetTraveler
Summary: The theft of a world class violin leads Don on the trail to a deeper discovery of his family and himself.
1. Adagio Sostenuto

A/N - Here's a story that started wiggling free from my head and started spilling all over my laptop keys... It's quite a mess, that I don't nearly have cleaned up yet.

This is more case-oriented and set in during the latter half of season two, post-Running Man.

* * *

**_"And so the conversation slips_**

**_Among velleities and carefully caught regrets_**

**_Through attenuated tones of violins_**

**_Mingled with remote cornets_**

**_And begins."_**

_-Portrait of a Lady, T.S. Eliot_

* * *

There's moments, maybe in conversation, maybe just waiting at the bus stop, and everything seems beautifully mundane. Then a glance or odor, perhaps a laugh or a flash of color shifts time. Its an illusion, powerful and intoxicating, a sudden rush that reality is somehow very familiar. It's the man stealing the only empty seat on the Metro or the stain a spaghetti noodle leaves after bending toward gravity. 

That's the crazy thing about deja vu.

Don Eppes looked up, his pen pausing on the college rule and caught the eye of the man shell shocked in a straight-backed mahogany chair. His eyes were distinctly red, left fingers moving constantly in tune to the mute concerto playing through his mind. There were muttered _"My God, the del Gesu..."_ and _"How can this be?"_ in a soft Vienese accent.

That posture was familiar. The defeat and depression, the tangible abasement flowing off the man in waves.

"They took the Guaneri and replaced it with t-this..." The man stuttered, furious and without words. "This is sacrilege!"

Don's mind drifted back a quarter of a century to when he was ten and his next door neighbor's dog was hit by a car. _It was a mixture of labrador and spaniel, an animal innovative long before the labradoodle became vogue. _ The poor thing whimpered around on the driveway most the afternoon before it passed. Mrs. Koenin, who was a million years old and had long since joined Baxter in the hereafter, had sat with her dog, cane and legs splayed on the pavement, until twilight.

A two hundred and sixty year old violin wasn't the same as a decrepit three legged mutt, yet the disappearance of both left an equally crater like hole.

Like Yogi Berra said, _it was like deja vu all over again. _

The dressing room was small and dimly lit. The air was heavy with roses and rosin, tension sang through the atmosphere with a fine _virbrato_. It had been a long several hours since the agents had arrived. The CSI had come and gone, collected evidence, shipping fibers and papers back to the FBI lab. There were a few LAPD officers milling around, some interviewing orchestra members, others blocking entrance from curious reporters and passers-by.

"Mr. Leismuller..." Megan Reeves knelt before the shaken man. "Mr. Leismuller, could you please tell us when you first noticed the violin was replaced..."

The wild graying hair whipped up, a missing fire flashed briefly in his eyes, "It is not merely a _violin,_ Agent Reeves." The man got up and paced in the room, the sudden movement urging Megan back to her seat. His black silk bow tie hung limply around his open collar. The sleeves of his shirt flapped carelessly like a persistent metronome, free of cuff links and propriety.

Don leaned his chair slightly against the wall, until the two front legs hovered a few centimeters off the floor. Megan sat next to him, the door of the room gently bumping against her back. The large mirror across from him amplified the room, doubling the light and the number of people there.

A closet door was opened off to the left, revealing several tuxedos and boxes piled on the floor. There were twin van Goghs competing for attention on either side, clashing with photographs of Isaak Perlman, Yo-Yo Ma and others Don did not recognize. He brought the chair back down soundlessly, and jotted notes, remembering to ask what was still unknown.

"We are talking about a _Guaneri del Gesu_. One of the finest instruments ever made. It's worth..." Gregor Leismuller slumped atop the dressing table. "...It's worth is almost incalculable," he whispered. "And it is not even mine..."

The two agents exchanged a look. Don could feel his brow wrinkling, silently reminding himself to be patient with the man, "Who does it belong to then?"

Somewhere in the background, a piano could be heard. It was faint at first, soundwaves hardly even registering. The notes picked up both sound and speed as the player drifted from a chromatic scale to an _intermezzo _then onto a familiar, yet nameless minuet. Don found his mind wandering with the musician as he heard a C chord followed by a D.

The violinist nervously plucked at his sleeve, "It is owned by a trust. I believe you call it _conservatorship_?" Don nodded for him to continue. "The Guaneri was simply to expensive for me to purchase. When it came up for sale it was bought by a group whose interests lies in fine violins: Amati, Stratavarius, and of course, Guaneri."

The topic seemed to ease the man's apprehension, the frustration softened in the light of a familiar topic. "Those three are the trinity of the finest violins, all from Cremona, Italy." His shoulder brushed against a bouquet of roses behind him, petals falling to the floor. "The group lends out instruments to various musicians depending on skill level and reputation."

Don was surprised as he realized the older gentleman reminded him of his brother, Charlie. Both were exceptionally passionate, and both seemed more comfortable with teaching than when riddled with questions. The man's voice rose and then fell with veneration, "Nicolo Paganini played this instrument. " Liesmuller's face twisted between a grin and a grimace, "He lost it to cover a gambling debt..."

"Sir, how does the group turn a profit?" Megan queried, attempting to get his attention back.

"It's always money, isn't it?" Leismuller shook his head, tugging at the silvery goatee, "There is... most of the members of the board, they are wealthy patrons. Monetary profit is not their concern. They look to turn an artistic one."

The dressing room door closed earlier, yet by now it had slowly crept open. The piano man continued on, _tremoloed_ G to E and then gradually fell into Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Don could feel his fingers trace out the chords against his leg. Megan noticed the subtle movements and Leismuller watched approvingly, "You are a musician, Agent Eppes. You understand why this is so important then..."

A slight flush stole across his face, "It's been a long time, Mr. Leismuller." Don shifted his feet slightly, rolled his neck against the impending and probable stiffness. It was late, well after two in the morning. The phone call roused him from bed and chased away any traces of sleep. "How much is the del Gesu worth?"

The musician gave a hard look at Don, as if he was offended at the question, "It is more than the money, Agent Eppes. It's an incredible piece of history." He frantically ran his hands through his hair, pausing at the question on the agent's face, "It was assessed... maybe eight years ago now. It's worth has easily doubled since then, perhaps even tripled..."

"How much, Mr. Leismuller?" Megan prompted.

Leismuller kicked out at a stack of sheet music on the floor, the papers slipping across the floor, stopping at Don's feet, "Ten million dollars..."


	2. Allegretto

A/N - Okay, so what was up with the season finale? I mean, it was incredibly amazing and I absolutely loved the Don and Charlie moments. But there is something definitely afoot (aside from the obvious treason). I know Dylan Bruno's not written off the series, so I can't wait to see how they explain what happened. I'm thinking deep undercover. Very deep.

So on that note...

Colby's still a good guy in my book and will be written as such. (Though I have to say, I have a feeling that fanfiction is going to be very messed up this summer!)

And thank you to all for your reviews! I love them and they put me in my happy place

* * *

_**Music falls on the silence like a sense,**_

_**A passion that we feel, not understand.**_

_-It Must Change, Wallace Stevens**  
**_

* * *

The headlights of the SUV flashed briefly as Don hit the button on the keychain. He glanced up at the clear sky, a few of the braver stars breaking through the smog and city lights. _Twinkle, twinkle little bat..._ Megan opened the side door first, Don pausing to throw one last glance over his shoulder at Disney Hall. 

The streetlights gave the building a sort of golden sheen, yet it felt like it's shadow, or something dark was bearing down on him. A shiver worked its way down his spine. Don wasn't sure if it was from the weather, or maybe, the atmosphere. _It was a dark and stormy night..._ There was a steady drizzle, and the halos around the streetlights brought back to mind Raymond Chandler and Humphrey Bogart, film noir and mystery novels. _He half expected to see Gene Tierney sauntering down the sidewalk with a cigarette between her fingers..._

The door swung open and he slumped in the seat, fumbling with the keys, finding the right one and jamming it in the ignition. It was almost three now, according to the clock radio. Megan's handbag dropped unceremoniously on the vehicle's floor, "A ten million dollar violin..." She let out a low whistle, "Did you catch that look on his face? You'd think it was his wife or something..."

Don nodded as he turned the key, "I'd be more worried about handling it wrong and breaking it." The SUV pulled out on the road, Don steering it back towards the FBI offices, "You good for a little pick me up?"

The profiler drew her attention from the notes on her lap, "Sounds good." She held up the papers, "Maybe after a little coffee these little black squiggly marks will start making sense."

The SUV came to life and Johnny Cash came on over the speakers. _Johnny Cash and Gene Tierney... Now there's a picture. _Megan regarded her boss, "CD or radio?"

Don made an effort to be extra vigilant as he glanced out the windows before pulling out onto the road in vain effort to ignore her amusement. "CD," he replied. "Why?"

Her head was turned out towards the city lights that sailed by, "I just think it's kind of funny to see a law man humming along to Folsom Prison Blues..."

Don's mind flew backwards, trying to remember if he really had or if Megan was just pulling his leg. But then it was too early, or maybe too late, to really think. So he shook his head at her and sighed, "It's a good thing I found that note on your desk before someone else did."

That was Megan's turn to blush and look away as her hand worked it's way towards her jacket pocket. It was a star chart with one particular heavenly body circled and named for her. It had carelessly slipped out of her handbag and in the walkway between the cubicles. "I never did thank you for that, Don." The paper rumpled as she gripped it tightly and remembered when Don scooped it up and away from Colby and David's prying eyes.

"Ah, no problem."

There was a twenty-four seven diner down the street from the FBI. It was small and Don suspected, older than he was. He figured they made most their money from the constant flow of agents coming and going at all hours of the day and night. _He was almost certain that he had seen half the office there at one time or another._

The bell tinkled as Megan pushed the door open, a familiar waitress waved them on over to an empty booth in the corner. _It reminded him of Hopper's Nighthawks. _Coffee was poured and an order of a cheeseburger with fries and a turkey on rye made it to the little carousel where the short order cook set to work.

The tables were all formica, mismatched in ugly avacado greens and a strange musky blue. Hideous fake wood paneling covered the walls, boldly poking out from behind sun-faded Norman Rockwell prints. The waitresses all wore pale yellow shirt-dresses, edged in blue with tiny white aprons and tired, old Keds. _Someone had frozen time here, forgot to tell them forty years had gone by._

"What do you play?"

Megan's question startled his attention from his thoughts. _He had hoped that Megan had forgotten about Leismuller's comment..._ "Ah, piano about a million years ago."

She raised her eyebrows, not quite ready to give up that certain line of questioning, but Don's posture clearly told her it was off-limits. Letting it go, Megan flipped through the dessert menu propped between the salt and pepper shakers. "So when do you think the fake was swapped for the original?"

Don slid his black jacket off and let it slip down the back of the padded blue vinyl behind him, "Leismuller was fairly sure after the concert. But then even he said that he wasn't certain it was a fraud until he had his second chair take a look."

Megan flipped through her notebook, letting it fall open to a page toward the back, "So do you think it was swapped back in Chicago?"

The conversation paused as a perky young woman with black pigtails set their food down on the table, "A turkey for the lady and a burger _para usted, senor_."

He lifted his arms off the table and let them fall back to his side. The name tag read _Rosalita_ and her spicy perfume reminded him of a high school girlfriend and French lessons as it melded with the aromas off his plate. She refilled the coffee and stepped back behind the counter, gossiping with another woman at the cash register.

Rubbing his hands through his hair, Don noticed his attention had waned a bit as he thought Rosalita looked a little like Gene Tierney and wondered if she smoked. Assiduity returned as a manicured finger slipped a fry off his plate. "Hey there," he protested, but did nothing to stop her. "It's possible... A Chicago swap. But I'm thinking that it happened here, in LA, probably right after the concert."

"An inside job?" Megan questioned, eyes sparkling and half-eaten fry pointed towards a photo of the del Gesu. "Yeah, I pretty sure that Leismuller's too wrapped up with that instrument to not notice a change."

Don picked up the coffee with one hand and unconsciously guarded his plate with the other, "So can I mark that down as the official profiler's verdict?"

There was a bit of laughter in her voice, "Only if I can get another one of your fries."

_Numb3rs...Numb3rs...Numb3rs... _

The sun had yet to break through the LA smogscape as Don pulled into the drive. The Prius was missing, Charlie and Larry had left early the day before to celebrate the end of the semester with a camping trip._ "It's great, Don. We head up into the mountains where Larry can set up his telescope and I go hiking. _Don had been invited along, but after weighing geek trip versus crime fighting, there really wasn't much contest.

After the quick breakfast, _or was it dinfast or breaner? _Don and Megan had returned to the FBI building. There were searches for similar crimes, similar _modus operandi_ and a pot of coffee that didn't quite make the impact it needed to. So Don called David and filled him in, having him pick up lead while he drove to Pasadena and Megan went to her apartment to catch up on sleep. _After all, who wants to work with someone who looked like they came straight out of Tales from the Crypt?_

The lock turned with the ease of familiarity. He was careful to close the door quietly, _piano, _not _forte._ The rush of memories brought on by the nameless Moonlight Sonata player had placed him off balance. In fact, this whole case was starting to get to him in a way he hadn't expected. There had been something about being in the concert hall, not really creepy, but not particularly mystical either. _It was right there in front of him, but he couldn't see the forest through the trees..._

He flipped a lamp on in the living room, the light casting weird shadows on the furniture and pictures on the wall. The jacket was hung on a hook by the door and his keys landed with a light thud in the green, fluted bowl on the table. The afghan was in the closet and as Don pulled it out, his mother's piano beckoned him from the corner.

The cover folded easily back from the keys, the bench was lifted, not scraped, across the floor. He smiled as he remembered lessons with Mrs. Petrie and how she showed him to hold his hands, gently, constantly reminding him to keep his wrists off the keys. The ivories were cool in the early morning, fingers skating over them, not quite realizing that he had actually started playing till the sounds reached his ears.

Don skitted through some scales, falling into bits of familiar songs, fingers searching out what he thought he remembered. Mrs. Petrie said that he always played with _grazioso, _grace. He remembered being secretly proud before blowing the compliment off to make baseball practice on time. _What little boy would want to be a concert pianist when he could play ball? _

The B was flat, and his index finger slid off the key in protest, _have to get this tuned._ Stubble itched as he rubbed his face with his hand. Trying again, Don skipped the B and his fingers slid into the first few bars of the Moonlight Sonata, the steady repetition of notes lulling his nerves. He held out at the _fermata_ and dropped his hands to his lap.

_"You are a musician, Agent Eppes. You understand why this is so important then..."_

Leismuller's words came back and drummed in his head along with the rhythm of the music. _You are a musician..._ Don shook his head and he glanced over to the empty chair in the corner. _Margaret use to sit there as he practiced. Margaret was the musician... _His lips curled up at that melodramatic thought. Don slid the cover back and glanced at his wristwatch, _Almost five... _

The couch was mostly comfortable and with the afghan he could almost imagine his mother, using the blanket as some sort of tailsman to the past. A past where his mother wrote music in secret and crocheted to keep fingers nimble while he played baseball by day and practiced piano at night. _Proust had his madelines and Don had the afghan... Was it silly for a grown man to still hold an attachment to a blanket?_

The afghan had seemed to shrink over the years. _Or was it that he had grown? _When he was little, it was large enough to wrap around himself multiple times or to stretch out over chairs for a fort. Now, it was frayed and wasn't quite as thick as he remembered. Don held one edge down with his ankles and tucked the other around his shoulders as he fell to sleep.

_He couldn't help but wish his mother was still around to hear that piano player from before..._


	3. Presto Agitato

A/N - I'm so sorry for leaving you guys hanging. I've been on vacation these past two weeks (in LA... squeel!) and just got back last night. I want to thank all of you for your reviews so far and apologize for not sending you each a huge chocolate bar or pm ('cause you deserve it).

Here's my little spot where I go all fan girl. I visited CalTech on Friday and saw the math building (actually an administrative one in reality), the cute cafe tables with the green umbrellas and even said hi to the professor who advises the show! So if you have a chance, go. It's an absolutely gorgeous and a lovely break from the insanity that is LA. Yay Pasadena!

Again, thank you all for your reviews! And a special thanks to printandpolish for pointing out a spelling error.

Enjoy!

* * *

_**And they said then, "But play, you must,**_

_**A tune beyond us, yet ourselves,**_

_**A tune upon the blue guitar**_

_**Of things exactly as they are."**_

_-The Man With the Blue Guitar, Wallace Stevens_

* * *

It was a little after six when Alan Eppes slid into his robe and down the stairs to the first floor. The piano bench was pushed out from the wall and he didn't realize it until too late. _Now what in the heck are you doing there? _Alan shoved it back to it's proper place, his knee throbbing and dust motes drifting in the early sunlight. He caught sight of a lump on the couch and Alan's throat constricted. 

_He hadn't been dreaming. The phantasmal music was real and it was Don's..._

It had been so long since the piano had been played. It almost melted past oblivion well before Margaret passed, back when Don played for Stockton and Charlie lived in London. The piano became part of the house, an extention of the wall. _Something that was there, but never used. _Had a nameless reporter asked Alan if there was an instrument in his house, he would have said, _"No, none at all. There is no music here."_

Then Charlie found Margaret's compositions, Don started playing them. And for the first time in years, Alan remembered there was music in the house. _Music in his home..._

The afghan had drifted off his son's shoulders and partly on to the floor. There were squeaks in the old hardwood that he avoided, only to narrowly miss a pair of brown shoes tucked between the couch and coffee table.

Alan held his breath as Don rolled over to his stomach at the sound of his footsteps. He tugged the blanket loose from an arm carelessly dropped to the floor and laid it gently over Don's back. _It had been a long time since he'd tucked his son in..._

His hand rested for the briefest of moments on his son's shoulder. It struck him then how much Don resembled his mother. There was the strong nose and high cheekbones, fair complexion and the mirror-like smile the two shared. _Too bad Don doesn't use his as much as his mother had..._

And the music... _Oh God, was there music..._ He had never forced the lessons, Margaret had. Don had started first, _was he six or seven then? _There was the constant sounds of 'Mary had a Little Lamb' and 'Chopsticks.' _And was his first recital piece 'Edlewiess'? _ It was persistant and beautiful, and always early morning before school.

What was that phrase, the more things change, the more they remain the same?

The music was more complex in nature now. No more nursery rhymes or children's songs. Then again, that was a long time ago, music from another era back when Don loaded his six-shooter with caps and wore a vest with a silver sheriff's badge over his heart.

_Maybe things don't change that much after all..._

_Numb3rs...Numb3rs...Numb3rs..._

The paper had landed in the bushes that morning, which was closer than the middle of the lawn the morning before. Alan set his orange juice on the stoop as he manuevered through Margaret's awkward hedges for his LA Times.

The metaphysical past seemed near this morning. _It was the music... _Alan hated to use the word haunting. _Then if that didn't fit, what word did? Not forbidding. That denoted something terrible. So did ominious. _It was as if the music was almost prophetic in nature. _So dark, yet auspicious and familiar... _

This hadn't been the first time that Don pulled out the piano bench. But it had been twenty-some-odd years since Alan had run into it. It had been the morning of some Saturday late afternoon baseball game, Don waiting impatiently for a ride while Charlie went on about some theorem or postulate.

The time had steadily drifted away as he and Margaret listened to their youngest rave, _more like smiling and nodding their heads in rhythm to whatever he was talking about..._ It had been so hard then, trying to understand Charlie, trying to explain that they couldn't really grasp what an eight-year-old protegy did.

And all the while, Don, with a baseball glove sticking out of his back pocket, pounded through Joplin's _Entertainer_, over and over, louder and louder until Charlie whined and Alan realized what his eldest was trying to do. He drove him to the game and sat in the bleachers. _They had lost the game and any consolation was gone after one-of-the-many tutors came by with the news that Charlie had won another math paper competition. _

The next four years were all downhill from there. Both boys started high school in the fall, neither happy with the prospect. Charlie delved into his math and Don withdrew from the family. The piano went silent and the void was filled with the Pixies and David Bowie. Don was gone at practice most nights, cross-country in the fall, basketball in the winter and baseball come spring.

_It took nearly twenty years before he knew his eldest again..._

The door eased open and shut just as quietly. Alan spread the paper open on the dining room table, pulling out the sports section first. He lost himself in the box scores, thought his earlier musings were much too _Cat's in the Cradle_ and the let his eyes wander over to Don despite himself.

_What do they say, better late than never?_

_Numb3rs...Numb3rs...Numb3rs..._

It is a fact of modern life that no alarm could ease the trip of sleep to wakefulness pleasantly. No, it was rude, loud and persistant. Don thought it really was a shame 'cause he was fairly certain that Kate Winslet wouldn't be in _that _position next time he dreamed. _Who says that Neverland is just for children?_

He groaned and grabbed for his phone, flipping it open and shutting the alarm off. There was sleep in his eyes and a crick in his neck. _Maybe Charlie'd buy a new couch for Christmas? _Don smirked as he looked towards the stairs, _or he could just use his old bed upstairs. But that would be too easy, wouldn't it Eppes? _

The shoes came on easy and Don recognized his Dad's footsteps as he fumbled with the laces. He double-checked his wrist-watch and then smiled as Alan offered him a cup, "Figured you'd be up by now." _He knew the scent French Roast was a more effective eye-opener for Don than any alarm clock ever was._

"Thanks, Dad." The brew was rich and dark. Fragrant in a way that would leave Starbucks crying and the FBI's sad excuse for coffee with a serious inferiority complex.

If there was one thing that his father knew, it was coffee. Don figured he could have bought a plantation of his own by now if he had wanted to. _The money he had spent on coffee beans over the years could have set him up nicely. _There was the grinder set proudly on the kitchen counter, next to the french press and the espresso machine.

Of course there had been the legendary summer break trips to Colombia and Costa Rica that Alan crowed about whenever anyone would listen. _And to even those that wouldn't... _He would speak of salsa dancing and late nights at discotecas, living off pineapples for next to nothing along with rice and beans three meals a day. His dad was a hippie, reading Nietchize and wearing tie-dye, having hair long enough to actually let down.

"When did you come in?" Alan had a second mug in his hand and set it on the end table as he reached for his puzzle book, "It must have been late."

Don nodded, moving the mug away from his mouth as he swallowed, "Yeah, got called out last night." He paused as he reached for his navy blue dress shirt, slipping his arms through the sleeves, "A violin got stolen, swapped with a pretty impressive fake."

"Violin, huh?" Alan pretended to study the crossword, "Doesn't seem like something somebody'd want to steal."

"You'd think that," Don rubbed his hands on his jeans, twirled the coffee in the mug. "But this one's worth something like ten million..." His tone was inflected with the incredulousity that still tinged his thoughts from the night before.

Alan's eyebrows raised in surprise, "And they say to invest in real estate..."

A sound of appreciation escaped as Don drained his cup. "Yeah, well good luck with that..." He got up and pulled his brown leather jacket on, stepping towards the kitchen to set the mug in the sink. He stole a bagel from the bread box, breaking a piece off as he headed back towards the front room, then flipped open his phone to look at the text message from David.

"I hate to eat and run, Dad," Don motioned toward the cell with the bagel. "David says he's got something..."

"Stop by for dinner if you have a chance." Alan caught a glint of gold as the badge flapped open as Don slid it into his back pocket, "Charlie's still camping and I'd hate for a lasagna to go to waste."

"Lasagna, huh?" A slow smile worked its way over Don's face, "I'll be there."

The door shut and the sound of the SUV pulling out of the driveway pulled Alan back to the crossword, "A seven letter word for an offering used to gain an oftentimes illicit advantage."

Bribery was easy enough. _But how in the hell was he going to be able to swap that gold badge for a certain little silver star?_


	4. Allegro

A/N - Hello all, thank you for reviews and your continued reading. Sorry I haven't updated in a while. The whole reality thing hasn't been helping my writing any.

Enjoy...

* * *

_**"You alone, alone, imaginary song,**_

_**Are unable to say an existence is wrong,**_

_**And pour out your forgiveness like a wine..."**_

_- The Composer, W. H. Auden_

* * *

The Echo Park neighborhood laid slightly north and to the west of downtown Los Angeles. This particular section of LA was old, the homes mostly century-aged bungalows, filled with ghosts from another era. It was old Hollywood in all it's glory. It was there Mary Pickford became a star, cut her hair and then lost it all. Charlie Chaplin wooed Virginia Cherrill by the _City Lights_. The real _War of the Worlds _was filmed there, the good one with Orson Wells and not Tom Cruise. And it turns out that Gilligan's _Minnow_ never left the dock. 

The City Council had named historic landmarks: there was a clubhouse, the oldest in LA, along the eastern edge of Echo Park Lake which wasn't too far from _Nuestra Reina de Los Angeles. _The Art Deco Queen guarded the lotus beds from the shore, keeping a watchful eye on the children who played there. It was a popular place to go, especially with the Chinese dragon boat races during the Lotus festival.

The area seemed to still attract artists and hippies, painters and poets, activists and movie stars.

_And apparently, Russian musicians..._

Don steered the SUV along Sunset Boulevard, past the Ramona Theater and towards a maze of avenues snaking due south. A construction crew was busy at a house on the corner steadily de-stuccofying a large two story, signs loudly declaring a bungalow restoration. Don stared out the windshield longingly, figuring that ripping plaster off a house had to be more fun than listening to Colby Granger try to kill his radio.

He reached the FBI just an hour prior to find David Sinclair and Granger powwowing in the war room, photos of the stolen instrument and the unfortunate Gregor Leismuller projected on the wall, a few manila folders scattered across the table top interspersed with half-empty styrofoam cups of cold coffee. _Abandon all hope, ye who enter here..._

"Hey guys..."

Don hadn't even had a chance to drop his jacket off at his desk before they waved him over, "Hi Don, take a look at this..." Sinclair motioned toward the laptop, scanning down a page for the proper file, "Turns out there was another one."

"Another..." The senior agent's voice drifted off as he studied the information in front of him.

"Turns out that _Herr_ Leismuller wasn't the first to have his violin swapped." Colby sat slumped in a chair in front of Don, "A Stradivarius came up at Christie's in San Francisco six months ago." The pen started flipping through his fingers at a faster and faster speed, "The violin was assessed before the auction and was found to be a fake. A Pseudo-varius..." he snapped his fingers and chuckled.

David groaned and Don shook his head, "That's awful, Colby..."

"What he's _trying_ to say," David stressed, rolling his eyes. "Is that the person who identified the fake in San Francisco, lives here in LA. Echo Park actually. One Marina Kayakova. Came to the States ten years ago from Russia on a music scholarship. Finished her bachelor's here, completed a luthier apprenticeship in Italy "

"Luthier?"

"Violin making."

David slid the file across the table to Don, "She's worked with several organizations before, including the FBI, identifying stolen instruments."

"So, she's got clearance." It was more a statement than a question. Don had dropped to the chair in front of the laptop, reading what his team summed up. Casually running his hand across his chin, Don wished he spent a little more time that morning with a razor. "You're liking it to be the same guy?"

"It says here that Kayakova thought it was a case of 'masterpiece identity theft.'" Colby shrugged, pulling out his quotations fingers, "If we can tie the two together..." He trailed off and made a sort of _well, you know_ gesture.

Don glanced up when he saw Megan Reeves walk in the room, "Well, what are we waiting for? Granger, you're with me. David, you catch Megan up to speed. See if you can't get a hold of the other violin."

_Numb3rs...Numb3rs...Numb3rs..._

He just had to choose Colby. _His radio was never going to forgive him..._

The conversation was stilted at best, what with Don not feeling particularly verbal coupled along with the auditory onslaught of the stations changing rapidly from the Eagles to fuzzy TeleMundo radio, then pausing momentarily on something vaguely emo before Colby finally sighed and left it on Wilco.

Waterloo Street was the next right and Don felt his left foot tap along to the acoustic strumming. He shifted in the seat and cast a quick look over towards the other agent, _Way to go Idaho farm boy.._.

_"I'd like to dream my troubles all away on a bed of California stars..."_

_Now if that didn't take him back... _There was that poker game the night after his last final, a celebration closing out his freshman year and gaining a six-string guitar. Instead of going home for the summer, there was the job working with the UC - Santa Cruz grounds crew. Close to the beach, Don mowed lawns by day and were campfires and cookouts stretching far past night. He hadn't played the piano in years, yet he picked through _The Whole Wide World _and a sort of impromptu beach band was born. _  
_

"Hey Don, I think this is it." Colby motioned at a pale yellow bungalow seated far back off the street, gold address numbers casually reflecting sunlight. The SUV parked in front of the house, on the street, and the two agents headed to the front door.

"Says here that she gives music lessons," Granger read off the file in his hands. "I had this music teacher once... Myrna Hughes." A dreamy look crossed the younger man's face, "That woman sure knew her slide trombone."

The front windows were open, Vivaldi's _Spring_ came trilling out. "Pretty sure this one isn't into brass, Granger." Don rapped on the doorframe, incongruously peering through the etched glass panel. The violin gave pause for the piano's _cavatina_ and then resumed just as quickly as before. "I think we're going to have to wait for the intermission."

As the music ended and Don gave a final knock, a young girl, _maybe thirteen, _pulled the door open, gave the agents one good, long look and shouted, "Miss Marina, your green card's still good, right?"

Throughout his time in the FBI, Don had some pretty _interesting _introductions. Most indifferent, a lot annoyed, and some, downright profane. He heard Colby snort and waited as soft murmurings came from the other room. There was laughter and a lithe figure pulled the teen from the door.

"_Privet_," She smiled at the men and whispered something to the girl. "Now go, you and your brother's lessons are over for the day... Tell him, you both be concert masters if you practice." The accent was heavy and Don couldn't help but think, charming.

The two agents stepped away as the girl and her brother left, both carrying violin cases and backpacks full of sheet music. The young man placed a hand around his sister's shoulders as she glared at the agents and muttered about deportation and consequences. The two wander off down the sidewalk and out of sight.

"I am sorry, Katie watch too many movies," Marina Kayakova had thick black hair and long fingers she tapped the edge of the door with as she balanced on one leg, the other foot resting on her knee. "I tell her I not Mexican, have proper visa." She shrugged, "Can I help you?"

"Don Eppes, FBI," She frowned slightly and waited for him to continue. "This is Agent Granger. We're aware you're an expert in instrument appraisals. We have a few questions about the Stradivarius in San Francisco."

She pulled the door open and waved them in, "Please, have a seat in living room. You like ice tea, yes?"

Don wandered past the hall to where Marina had indicated. There were photos plastering the walls, the frozen Kremlin, an older man in a workshop, and a party in a vineyard. A black baby grand was tucked in the far corner, the books on the shelves an odd mixture of Russian and English.

Colby winced as he nearly tripped on a cello, employing his football skills to use as he danced around it. "And mom yelled at me for leaving my room a mess."

"I could say something about your organization system at your desk. But I'm not, 'cause I'm such a nice guy."

The glassware clattered on the tray, muted sun sparking through the pitcher, cutting off Colby's retort, "Sorry I take so long." She took a seat in the straight-backed chair, cast a side-long glance at the two agents and poured the drinks, "How can I help?"

"You appraised the violin at Christie's?"

Marina nodded, "Yes, a very good copy. Nice grafted scroll."

Colby's face scrunched up, "Grafted scroll?"

"On end of violin," she leaned over, picked a violin out of a case near her feet. The end of the instrument was held out towards Don and Colby, "You see scroll? Not carved from same piece of wood, grafted. Typically only in old violins."

As she put the violin back in it's case, Don pulled a few photographs from a file folder, fanning them out on the coffee table, "Miss Kayakova, a Guaneri was stolen last night..."

His words were cut off with a sharp intake of breath, "A Guaneri, Leismuller's Guaneri?"

The agents were surprised, "Yes, how'd you know?"

"I know of the violin. I was to look at it while it was here. He worried about seams cracking." The tea had been abandoned on the tabletop, fingers steadily rapping on the edge of the chair, swearing in Russian, "Terrible. This is very terrible."

She slid the photos closer to her, eyebrows furrowed as she studied them, "What is this?"

"The Guaneri was replaced with this," Colby said. "We were hoping you could tell us where it came from. Who made it."

There was a quick nod, "I will find it. You think two violins are related?"

"Possibly," Don had drained his glass and shuffled the pictures back in the file. "Can you come with us now? Take a look at it?"

Marina stood up quickly, "I get my stuff." She carted the tray back to where she had brought it from, returning with a black leather case and stopped long enough to pick up her violin. The two men followed her to the door. Marina thumped rather angrily down the steps, Don overheard her, "I catch son of bitches who steal the Guaneri..."


	5. Adagio Molto

A/N - Hey, guess what? Here's an update! Seriously, it was like the chapter that wouldn't end. I kept typing and typing, hoping and praying to see the end of the tunnel. But no go. Merely another flicker of an idea to incorporate.

Thank you for all your reviews. I love them...

FYI - This is Pre-Rampage

* * *

**_"_****_I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing  
_**

_**than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance..."**_

_-e.e. cummings  
_

* * *

Don's attention waned from his computer screen to his wristwatch, probably for the tenth time in the past three hours. There were seemingly endless interviews that he was going through, notes and happenstance, hysteria and I-saw-something-that-could-be-important-but-probably-isn't-yet-still-needs-to-get-checked-over-anyways. 

Gregor Leismuller was concert master, first violin, for an orchestra with roughly a hundred members. Ten of those were not on the tour, another twelve weren't at the concert the night before. _Still leaves well over seventy musicians, not counting all those involved with set up and other... 'orchestra-y' things. _

And that wasn't including the number of people who had simply been at the concert hall: audience members, ticket booth handlers, ushers, coat checkers, waiters and cleaning staff. The list went on. That easily made a hundred plus witness reports to file, that many people to keep tabs on.

_He really hated paperwork…_

It could be worse, of course. David and Colby were looking through hours of surveillence videos from Disney Hall and its parking garage. _But then again, will that lead a break? The Metro stop is right there, taxis are numerous, especially before and after concerts. _Peering over the open side of the cubicle, Don could see David still hunched over, watching the grainy footage and couldn't help but think that rank had its privilege.

The wheels of his chair caught on the plastic mat covering the carpet as he pushed himself out from his desk. Megan was leaning back deep in her chair, thoughtfully chewing on the end of her pencil as she studied a picture, "Almost three hundred years old, Don. Can you just imagine… what it's seen? Where it's been?"

Don wondered if he had a sister, if she'd be like Megan. He also couldn't help but think that maybe Megan was spending just a little too much time with Larry Fleinhardt, "Have you noticed how couples who spend too much time together tend to look and act alike?"

Megan's eyebrow quirked up, "Yeah, the whole John Lennon – Yoko Ono syndrome. Why?"

"Is that the official name?" His UC-Santa Cruz mug was empty, a small ring of brown teased at the bottom. She looked at him over the rims of her glasses, waiting for a response, "Ah, no reason. Just thinking out loud."

_And let's just hope that Larry picks up on Megan's habit of wearing matching clothing if she's going to absorb his philosophical vocabulary…_

"I don't even want to know..." He heard over his shoulder as he made his way to the break room.

The drive back to the FBI from Echo Park had taken longer than Don hoped. There was an accident, the streets backed up, and the smell of overripe citrus baking in the California sun brought back images of Saturday mornings, his mom's orange crumb cake and their neighbor's swimming pool.

The Ziembas really weren't their neighbors, well Charlie ran on about if time stretched toward infinity and the earth collapsed in on itself, then yes, four blocks away would be neighbors. In fact, he said, with all the collapsing going on, all their particles would merge and suddenly Pasadena would be more than the sum of its parts. So-Cal's own mini-black hole, leaving Los Angeles as an event horizon for a quantum mechanics anomaly.

_Max Planck would be so pleased he remembered,_

_And Charlie still spelt 'anomaly' wrong..._

The coffee pot was empty, bone dry, save for the one drop that slid down the side as Don tipped it upside down over the sink. _An FBI agent can be trained in high stress, high pressure senarios and situations and can come out looking cool as a cucumber. But tell them to make fresh coffee after they drain the pot, and suddenly it's near impossible as touching the moon. _

The old paper filter fell with a thud to the trash, the new ones, up front and center in the mostly bare cupboards. Except for sweetener, coffee grounds and a box of pasta._ Who brings in a box of spaghetti noodles when there isn't even a stove to cook it on?  
_

"Hey, Don..." The water sprayed on from the faucet as David rinsed his glass out, "Seems I came in at the right time."

He grunted in response and finished filling the coffee-maker with water, hitting the 'brew' button before he turned around. "So what's this worth to ya?" Don motioned at the coffee pot.

David gave an easy smile, "Turned up a few names of private instrument _enthusiasts_ through Agent Hamil. Guess these guys don't mind using a little subterfuge to add pieces to their collections or extra cash to their off-shore accounts by passing them down the line."

"Anyone stand out?" Don filled his mug as well as David's, catching the pack of splenda the other agent tossed his way, "Thanks."

Sinclair nodded, "There's several who seem to specialize in stringed instruments, but nothing solid yet."

"Okay, good. That's a start." Don stirred the swizzle stick in a counterclockwise direction as they walked down the hall back towards their desks. Colby exited off the elevators, catching their attention by waving a file over his head. "What do we have from the lab?"

"A butt-load of fibers, rosin and horsehair, that's what." Granger's FBI polo had come untucked sometime in the last few hours, his voice heavy with sarcasm, with a tinge of _this isn't really helpful right now and we all know it._ "The DNA analysis is still running, but since there were no finger prints other than Leismuller's and his orchestra buddies on the fake, I doubt anything's going to turn up."

_Unless of course, the orchestra crowd has gone Hole-in-the-Wall. _Don was tired and lasagna was on his mind. It was steadily broaching past late afternoon into the early evening and progress of the case was slow, "Well, maybe Marina's got something."

The blinds to the war room were mostly closed. He pushed the door open, David and Colby following close behind. Megan sat at one of the long conference tables, chin resting in her hands as she watched Marina play one of the violins. The table behind the violinist had three violin cases open, the instruments softly reflecting light.

Don set his mug down, scanned the instruments and noted the tape measure, notebook full of scratchings and the black case of tools that vaguely reminded him of some nameless movie where the hero is captured and tortured for information. But the music was wrong. It wasn't terrifying, wasn't predatory. It was fast, rapid and light. _She was playing a jig... _He had never seen a bow move so quickly across strings before.

"Sound is different from violin to other violin." She stopped and glanced over as the three men filed into the room, "You come for concert, yes?"

Colby pulled up a chair, propping his feet up on the table, directly in front of Megan's nose, "Is this an information-sharing type concert?"

"Be nice, Granger." The profiler knocked his feet down, Colby feigned injury as he rubbed his leg where Megan hit him. "Ignore him, Marina. He's not quite house-broken."

The violinist smiled, the instrument tucked under her right arm, bow in the other. "I give him culture, then."

Don could literally see the cogs churning as Colby started to make some smart ass comment. Before he had a chance, Don threw out a question instead, "So any preliminary findings?"

"_Da..._" she started. "Yes, bad Stradivarius and bad Guaneri both made same way." Marina must have read the _that's good _in all their minds as she waved her hands, "Not sure if by same person though. Use hand tools, very careful." She shrugged her shoulders, "lots of careful luthiers use this... this method. So I will take them apart. Your scientists analyze glue."

"Can you get those samples to the lab tonight?"

Marina loosened the end of the bow, relaxing the horsehairs, placing it back in its case. Then carefully, she began rubbing the white rosin dust off the strings and fingerboard of the instrument with a soft cloth. She gave a rather guileless smile, pulling a thin edged, blunt knife out of the black case, "Silly man. Of course you get sample tonight. What you think I am? Amateur? I am the best."

She picked up the 'bad' Guaneri, took a seat and began unwinding the strings from the black pegs on the scroll of the instrument. Don passed her a pair of gloves, she eyed them skeptically at first and then put them on, "Violin held together with hide glue. Very good, can take apart and put together many times with no damage to instrument. Sometimes add things to glue, make it easier to work with. Make for bad joints, like old lady's hip."

Colby snorted at that, "You think we can match the glue?"

"Possible," The last string was gone and she eased the palette knife between the ribs and back panel of the violin. "Tell them to look for dilution of water, maybe urea, maybe other things."

It was David's turn to look skeptical, "Urea? Really?"

It was slow going, Marina gently pushed on the blade, the sound of the joint opening had Don internally wincing. "Make glue stay open longer. Only have a minute to put pieces together, adding things make time longer." There was a final crack and Kayakova was able to lift the back panel off the violin, "But make weak joint, like I say."

She frowned, placed the back of the violin in the case and wiggled the sides that were still attached to the front of the instrument, "Too easy to pull apart. Bad for violin, good for you." Glue was scraped off the wood into an evidence bag that David held open.

Peering closely at the inner surface of the instrument, she fumbled for a magnifying glass, "And here is other thing." Marina pointed to a paper label on the bottom plate, "Test paper and ink. Giuseppi Guaneri did not sign this."

"You can tell it's a forgery?"

She handed the magnifying glass to Don, motioned for him to look, "I think master violin maker knew to spell his name right." Marina held a finger under the last name, "Guaneri has only one 'a'."

The writing was small, the label antidiluvian and time-worn. _It certainly looked authentic. _But how often had he seen that looks could be so deceptive? The lamp was tilted so he make the letters out. _Guanari_ _del Gesu, 1741._

_Well, what do you know? Charlie's a violin forger..._

_Now how was he going to explain that one to his dad? _

A smallish seal was directly above the lettering. Don could make out a sigma, several other greek letters and a cross, "What is this here?"

Marina studied the label for a long moment, flipped open a book and consulted a diagram, "Giuseppi Guaneri was called _del Gesu_ because he use Roman cross and _iota eta sigma _as mark. This is good copy." The book closed with a sense of finality, "Still, name spelled wrong. Five year old could see this is fake."

David finished bagging up the pieces of violin, the coiled strings and bow, "I'll run this down to the lab then."

Don waved him on, "Colby, wait for Marina to take the Stradivarius apart, then take that down as well." The agent and violinist both nodded as Don turned to talk to Megan, "I guess we enlarge our search to forgers who can't spell... What do you make of that any ways?"

He held the door open for her as they walked back to their desks, "Well, I don't think it was a mistake. Not after all that attention to detail. Could be a bloated ego, taunting us to find them." Megan pulled her chair out, sat down with a sigh, "Or it could be a deliberate sign, like they weren't trying to pull a fast one in the long run. They just needed enough time to pull the swap and get out. In which case..."

"In which case, the del Gesu is already under glass in some private collection." Don turned his chair as his desk phone started to ring, "He's here? Okay, I'll be down in a minute. Thanks."

Megan gave him a questioning look, Don checked his watch again, "Leismuller's downstairs. Wants to know if we have anything yet." Don thought to himself for a moment, thought that maybe he could pass this one off on Megan, _after all, her job was to read people. _But he figured that if he didn't, he could still milk Situation: Star Chart in a more worthy life-or-death senario.

_Numb3rs...Numb3rs...Numb3rs..._

Gregor Leismuller was distraught. And Don not having an answer for the man left him feeling a lot like Gregory Peck in that scene from _To Kill A Mockingbird_ when he had to shoot the rabid dog in front of Scout and Jem. Don tried to calm him down, but the concert master was still mumbling incoherently when his assistant drove him back to his hotel.

The office was quiet when he came back. It was past six and was surprised he had spent over half an hour talking to the musician. Megan was gone and he guessed that Colby and David were still down at the lab. _Or they were smart and hightailed it out of here..._

Truth was, Don was looking to do just that. A nice quiet evening with his Dad. The files would come with him, but that helped oftentimes, to have a change of scenery to gain a new view on what he'd already gone over. _Truth really was his dad's cooking was sounding pretty good right about now..._

The lights were low and he was surprised when he saw Marina sitting at his desk looking closely at _something_ there, "Can I help you?"

She gave a little start, set the photo back on his desk. The frame told him it was the one of his family, _his whole family_, taken a few years back, when he was home from Albuquerque and Mom still made orange crumb cake on Saturdays.

"Your family?" Her eyes flickered from the photo back to Don when he nodded, "I need ride home. I worry when all agents disappear."

"They do that sometimes," he started slipping a few reports in a folder. "If you want to grab your violin, I can give you a lift."

"Thank you." A smile quirked on her lips, "It take me long time to understand American slang. Foot in mouth was worst."

Don started to laugh, "I could see how that could be a problem."

He closed out the files he had been looking at and then locked out his computer. Marina was waiting for him, leaned up against the cubicle wall, violin in one hand, tool case in the other.

"Ready to go?" Briefly the idea of asking her if she was ready to blow this popsicle stand crossed his mind, but he decided against that.

Don slid the briefcase case strap on his shoulder and offered to carry something for her. Marina handed him the black case, the one with the instrumental autopsy knives and not the violin. He could hardly fault her for that, after all that had happened.

The silence in the elevator was comfortable veering into the awkward. A pair of blue Sketchers shifted against the gray berber, "How is Margaret? I not hear from her in long time."

His hold on the case slipped and Don was so glad that he wasn't carrying the violin when he heard it hit the floor.


	6. Adagio E Piano

A/N- Wow, I actually got another chapter out. I apologize if this is too much angst and manic-depressive trauma, which was why I had such a problem writing it in the first place... But I digress.

Thank you again to all who review. You rock my world...

Lead on, McDuff.

* * *

**_"Could I revive within me_**

**_Her symphony and song,_**

**_To such a deep delight 'twould win me,_**

**_That with music loud and long,_**

**_I would build that dome in the air..."_**

_-Kubla Khan, Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

* * *

_"The place is here. The time is now. And the journey into the shadows that we're about to watch could be our journey." _

Those were the opening lines of the original Twilight Zone. He should know, his first ever college roommate watched the episodes religiously on VHS, a post-exam break down and recovery session. Or, at least, that's what Drew called it. It was more appropriately a geek convention, what with all the Zonies on the third floor crammed into the tiny dorm room.

Don moved off campus the following year.

And now, it felt like he was watching from outside himself. He was back in his dorm room, the old television sitting on top the mini-fridge flickered at odd intervals as Rod Serling narrated his life, gone black and white and there was nothing he could do about it.

It had almost been three years now. _Three years since she'd been gone..._

So much had happened since then, so much had changed. Don closed his eyes and gripped the hand rail behind him, feeling the rollercoaster rush in his stomach as the elevator descended. It had been so easy to just shove it all away, the grief, the frustration... There was the Pandora's box shoved back in the furthest corner of his mind, the one that he'd rather do _anything_ than confront. _And soon the spiraling vortex would suck him in to the tune of a macabre theme..._

The elevator shuddered to a stop, doors slid open and Marina was talking in the background. Don briefly wondered if she said something that he should have acknowledged. The case on the floor nearly tripped him, then belatedly remembered to bring it with them.

She was talking about university mentors, an orchestra and Tuesday evenings spent writing tabulature. The slight r rolling and the constant omission of articles distracted him till Don realized they had reached his SUV. The doors unlocked and he opened the door for her, "Marina..."

The violin rested on the floor of the back seat and she took the black case from his hands, wedging it between the bench seat and shotgun, "So my professor give me name of local composer who worked with students..." The rambling paused as she closed the back door. "Yes?"

Don had really grown to hate this, telling people his mother was gone. There was the inevitable look of shock and sorrow, the quiet apologies and condolances. _It never got any easier..._

"Marina, " Reticence colored his tone, realization struck him that she looked like some sort of modern version of Snow White, with the parking garage lighting washing out her already pale skin. "Marina... My Mom passed away three years ago."

Her face went from quiet distraction to what the fairy tale princess must have looked like after she realized the apple was poisoned. She covered her mouth with her hand and sat down hard on the oil-stained pavement.

Don folded his legs as he took a seat next to her, leaned back against the SUV, half wondering if anyone was watching the two of them on the security cameras. He fingered the keys, flipping through them like a Catholic praying the rosary at Mass. The quiet was punctuated by the occasional car driving through, the sounds of slowing engines bouncing off the cavernous-like interior.

"I visit family in Pskov then," her breathing was harsh as she wiped her fingers under her eyes. "I was there long time... I not talk with American friends..." Don watched as she dug through her purse, pulling out one of those small packs of tissues. "I try emailing her when I move back to California last year.

"Margaret was very good woman." She rubbed his arm, "She like mother to me. Teach me many things. I am very sorry, I did not know."

Don gave her a reluctant smile, then offered a hand to help her up. She had a firm grip and they both fell in uneasy silence. The sunlight had started melting into the haze across the sky, they pulled their visors down in near unison, the radio played something soft and alternative.

Figueroa was crowded, not quite the stand still the 110 was. He headed north, back towards West Sunset, wishing he could think of something to say but his mind had gone blank. But he didn't have to, Marina had already started speaking.

"I come to Los Angeles for school, had very hard time... Classes, new city... _Chert, _whole new country..."

He was being pulled where he did not want to go, remembering things from a decade ago. Don had been a newly graduated agent, sent off on his first assignment. Man-hunting was exciting, the constant motion, the feeling of_ maybe I can change the world_. He had been paired with an older, more experienced agent for a time. Then he moved to Chicago, rented an apartment he hardly ever saw and was teamed up with Billy Cooper. _Yeah, he knew what that was like..._

"My advisor gave me Margaret's number..."

_Had he really even known his mother? _The evidence was against him. High school had always been busy, the after-school practices, ducking under the radar to stay out late with friends. _And with Charlie around to absorb extra attention, it always seemed to work... _Margaret working part-time down at the law office, late nights spent writing up briefs. _There really just was never enough time, was there? _

And then there was the sheet music Charlie found a month or so ago.She had hidden her self well.

_At least he had picked up one thing from her..._

"She show me around Los Angeles, accompanied me on piano," The monologue quieted as she gazed at the sight of tail lights fading softly in the deepening twilight. "We go shopping many times..."

_Heck, maybe he had a little sister after all..._

Charlie had been in England ten years ago, working on _something._ What had his parents done, after the both of them left? Don was a little sad to say that he really didn't know. Had it been hard? Going from non-stop tutoring sessions, cross-country separation to...

Don sighed. Maybe it was what his parents needed after all. A chance to find each other after all was said and done.

Then again, what did he know about long-term relationships?

Waterloo was quiet, a gauzy breeze filtered through the trees, florals distinctly pulling at his attention. Marina directed him to the driveway, opened her car door partially and then stopped, "I maybe have something for you..."

Don hesitated for a moment, watched as she pulled her things from the back of the vehicle. _This was the Twilight Zone, a newly discovered alternate reality._ As he followed her up the steps, he thought that maybe Snow White was wrong and Cyd Charisse was more like it. _Maybe he found Brigadoon..._

It certainly felt that way.

He had failed to notice it before, but there were soft white Christmas lights looped around a small palm tree in the corner by a mahogany bookcase. The keys he shoved in his front pocket as he took a seat on the green velveteen sofa. Marina opened an armoire, revealing a too small television for such a large cabinet, and rummaged through a drawer below.

The shadows were deepening across the wall, so he reached over and flicked a lamp on. It was sort of a Tiffany's style, deep blue stained glass, with pink magnolia blossoms falling in intervals. A sound of victory came from the floor, Marina slipped a tape into the VCR.

She sat next to him, watching the images on the screen roll by, "This rehearsal tape before first American recital. A friend made this so I could improve." The tape froze on a younger Marina, with a Rachel-style bob. "Do you want to see this?" It was a lilting question, her face wrinkled as she remembered she hadn't even asked.

Don realized he hadn't really said anything since they left the parking garage, thought maybe he was spooking her a little, "Yeah..." His voice caught a little in his throat. He cleared it, then continued when he found that he really _did _want to watch whatever was on screen, "I think I would."

Her only response was a slight click as the tape started playing. The camera panned from Marina, who was giving a flirtatious bow, past a young man camped out on the floor with a hand on a viola as he flipped through a book, over to a high back piano.

The camera angle looked like something out of an Animal-Planet-lioness-stalking-prey-documentary. It crept up from the backside of the piano, bare ribs exposed to the world, and perched on the top, like Kilroy looking down his nose at passers by.

Don was going into anaphylaxtic shock, _that had to be it._ Why else would his throat start closing up? Why else couldn't he breathe?

The John Cassavetes wanna-be said something and a long-familiar blonde head looked up, lips twitching in the direction of a smile and eyes rolling, "No, you can't hold the tape hostage till Marina agrees to date you, Phil."

Margaret set her fingers back on and slid them across the keys, no stumbles, just music, "In fact, I'll call my fibbie and get him to put a restraining order on you..."

There was a laugh in the background and a "Thank you." The camera was too slow to catch the Russian's reaction before she had knelt down to put her instrument away.

A flash of color crossed the television screen as the camera came back to Margaret, "I told his dad it was a good thing to have a Fed in the family." She crooked a grin, and then, "Phil, are you still recording? Hand it over and let's tape that minuet."

Don let out a low breath at that, _she was really okay with his career..._ His hippie, peace-loving, daisy-toting, war-protesting mom... _She said it was a good thing... _

The picture jostled for a moment, there was a close-up of a five-K t-shirt as the other guy traded his viola for the camcorder. A skinny, stringy-haired Phil took a seat on the piano bench Margaret had vacated. Then the-here-and-now Marina stopped the tape and all that was left was a blue screen.

"Phil was not so good..." Vaguely registered in his mind, a box of kleenex filled his view, which suspiciously coincided with the burning in his eyes. "He make Chopin glad he is dead already."

The tissues wadded in his fist, his emotions pressed against the lid of the damn box in the corner, trying to escape like the kids toy with the crazy Jack dressed as a joker-clown. _It all left him with more unresolved mommy issues than Norman Bates..._

Whether he was really _Psycho_ or not, that minute of screen time had answered more questions than he'd ever bothered to voice. _Ever wanted to voice..._ Don scrubbed his hands over his face, took a deep breath that hitched in his throat.

A soft hand rested on his back, "I sorry... Did not mean to..."

"No," The force behind the word surprised him. "No, it's... Thank you."

She gave him a sad smile, a smudge of mascara flirted with the moisture on her cheek, "You like to make copy?"

"Yeah, I would..." He saw then he wasn't the only one grieving, didn't have the raw ache of loss. _ His had dulled over time, had become easier now that his family decided to go all Wally and Beeve... _

Maybe that was almost too accurate. _Or maybe he just wished that life really was like a half hour show where Mom wears pearls and everything turns out okay in the end. _But then again, maybe it was up to him go make for a happily ever after.

And if he couldn't relive the past, maybe he could try to hold on to whatever connections with it he could find. After all, there were no flux-capacitors or DeLoreans that would take him back. _And Charlie wasn't Doc Brown and he certainly was no Marty McFly..._

"Hey Marina, do you like lasagna?"


	7. Adagietto a Due

A/N - So, I'm back... RL has been awful these past couple of weeks, between nearly burning my left hand off, work exploding like Vesuvius and my family absolutely two steps away from Bellvue. But at least I'll always have Paris...

Okay, so its a strange name for a laptop...

So... yeah, I'm a dork...

* * *

_**"I am an inventor much more deserving,**_

_**Different from all who have preceded me;  
**_

_**A musician, even, who has found something which may**_

_**be the key to love."**_

_-Lives, Arthur Rimbaud  
_

* * *

Professor Charles Eppes prided himself in his intellect, quick thinking and ingenuity. He could hold his own against a lecture hall full of undergrads, hike in extreme conditions and solve crimes with the FBI. _So how does a smart guy like him end up letting his friend talk him into horseback riding..._

He wasn't a religious man, but somehow he felt a random deity was mocking him as his saddle sores thrummed in rhythm to the America's nameless desert steed on the only radio station he could pick up this side of Palmdale.

It was a damn shame he let Amita borrow his cds.

Traffic was light through Mojave to Rosamond and started to pick up once 14 had merged to the 138. The scenery was dry with the occasional Joshua tree breaking the monotony. Charlie shifted in his seat again, wishing for a hot bath, talcum powder and the calculations to make the jump to lightspeed. _If things went his way, he'd be home in time for supper._

An unusually red face tipped back against the passenger side window, lightly hitting the frame during a pothole or two. The physicist held tightly to a long, narrow cassion, swaying as the Prius skidded through gravel and back on the road. There was a sharp inhalation, then a quiet sigh that was either _Megan _or _millirem_. But then, it was just so hard to tell.

Charlie thought maybe Larry was right and he should surprise Amita with flowers or something.

Red Rock Canyon State Park lay north and east of Los Angeles by several hours. It was the convergence point between the Sierra Nevadas and the El Paso Range. The Kawaiisu Indians painted petroglyphs, drawing academics and archaeologists to the park. The survivors of the Death Valley trek attracted the historians along with kids in yellow school buses on field trips. And because it was so close to the city, it doubled as a shooting location for Jurassic Park and several other films.

They had spent two long, hot days in the desert sun and one night of freakishly cooler temperatures camping under open sky. After hiking an hour or so to the top of a butte, rusty like his dad's old truck before he sold it, Charlie had struggled setting up the Coleman Weathermaster and Larry fiddled with his telescope. It was a gorgeous panorama view, the pinks and oranges of the landscape melded with the sun, seemingly obliterating the horizon. And when the darkness fell and the stars came out...

_Had the heavens ever been so close?_

Charlie squinted as the sun miraged on the road, heat waves shimmering up towards the atmosphere. Sunglasses were in the glove box, but he didn't feel like waking Larry to get them. The physicist had spent the entire night wrapped in a sleeping bag, checking the exposure on his Nikon N65, intent on tracking the movement of the celestial bodies on thirty-five millimeter.

He said it had worked, or at least he hoped it did. _Megan's birthday was next month..._

And perhaps Aphrodite was Larry's guardian angel because the rain they had sought to escape, followed them from LA and only started when the camera was safely stowed away. Charlie smiled at the thought of Aphrodite watching out for Larry because that would mean that his mentor was a modern day Pygmalion, who after years of self-imposed bachelorhood, had finally found his Galatea.

Larry really had become quite the romantic.

_Too bad he thought horseback riding was part of the training program..._

Charlie bit the inside of his lip, started running through Reiman sums, which had calmed him ever since a twelve-year-old-Don had taught an eight-year-old-Charlie how to pop wheelies on his bicycle. They were simple and beautiful, distracting him in a way that only trapezoidal rule could. _He really wasn't all that fond of horses..._

The rain had started earlier that morning, after Larry brewed the coffee, but before Charlie could brush his teeth. It was slow at first, random drops sizzling on the open fire. They looked up to the sky with surprise, _hadn't it been bright blue just the moment before? _And then a ranger had stopped by, told them to leave unless they wanted to play Noah's Ark.

Charlie didn't have a boat.

The 14 became the 210, Sylmar became San Fernando which flowed into La Canada Flintridge. Soft lights off the freeway caught his eye. Had he gone towards them on the 134, they would have driven pass the Annandale Golf Club. It had eighteen holes and been around since 1906. Don knew a guy who had a friend whose second cousin had a membership, so he coaxed Charlie to man up in bermuda shorts and collared shirt, as was the dress code, and treat their father to some high class golfing, caddies included.

Charlie thought that maybe if he couldn't drag Don to the mountain, _or hiking, or camping... _Maybe the golf course would work instead.

_At least he could walk it._

The pace was slowing as Pasadena approached and the exit for South Los Robles was getting closer, the horse becoming a faded, distasteful memory. _He was going to sit on a pillow, preferably down but cottonballs would do._

Dorothy Gale had it right, there was no place like home.

_Numb3rs...Numb3rs...Numb3rs..._

Alan glanced up at the clock on the wall over the door, then back at the oven. With the light on, he watched the mozzarella bubble and brown as he wondered if Don was going to have a chance to make it over. But there had been no phone call yet, and Don was faithful to let him know if something came up. The romaine was ready in the refrigerator and the garlic bread waited its turn under the broiler.

The good china was on the top shelves, the every day ware on the slightly lower ones. Alan pulled to plates out, two glasses, two each of the utensils. The amber lighting softened the shadows edging through the windows and teasing the moonlight that had yet to fully appear. The napkins came out next, and a second thought produced a Chianti, deep and red, better with lasagna than beer.

His hand strayed towards the phone when he heard a car pull into the driveway. Relaxing, Alan brought the salad out, pausing only when the door opened. It was his son, only it was the one he wasn't expecting.

"Charlie! You're home already?"

The surprised tone wasn't lost on the mathematician. He noticed the place settings, the wine and casually raised an eyebrow in question. _Was there a woman he didn't know about?_ Charlie wanted to tease his father, but there was no faint redness creeping up his neck, no bashfulness in his voice.

In short, he had no ammunition.

"And yet, you have dinner waiting for me." Charlie dropped his backpack at the foot of the stairs and snatched a slice of bread from the basket, "I appreciate it. Really."

The dish towel snapped suddenly and Charlie jumped on instinct, as conditioned as Pavlov's dog. He cradled his neck, feigning injury while shoving the remaining bread in his mouth.

"I see the desert has not done anything for your sparkling personality, my boy." Alan set the salad on the table and turned to open the cabinet, adding another place setting, "Actually your brother's suppose to be dropping by for dinner. Thought he'd be here by now..."

Charlie frowned, "You don't think he got called out?"

Alan shook his head, polishing a finger print off the wine glass, "Probably just running late..."

His thought was cut off as he heard another engine shutting down, the doorknob Charlie kept forgetting to WD-40 protesting as it opened. _Cheaper than a burglar alarm... _Don stepped through the door, holding it open and not noticing the twin looks of surprise on his brother and father's faces. He made off as a gentleman as he took the woman's coat, a rich red with embroidery all over, and hung it on the hook by the door. Alan decided she looked younger than Don, perhaps closer to Charlie in age.

And then he smirked as he realized that Don had brought a _girl_ home for dinner.

_Alan could have swore he heard a muttered 'so hell finally froze over' behind him..._

Don gave a small wave and set his files on the small table, "Hey guys." He gave Charlie a second look, "I thought you'd still be out in Red Rock."

Charlie shrugged, "Potential flash flooding."

"What are the odds?" Charlie's mouth quirked up and Don waved him off, "Never mind. I don't want to know."

Alan had hurriedly laid down another place mat and gave a smile to the young woman standing there, "Don, you brought company?"

"Yeah," He bridged the gap between the three of them. "Dad, Charlie, this is Marina Kayakova." Alan offered his hand and she shook it gently, "Marina, my dad, Alan. My brother, Charlie."

"It is a pleasure."

Don pulled the dining room chair out for her, shaking his head as Charlie gave him an approving look. They sat down and Alan excused himself to the kitchen, returning with the lasagna, the cheese a little burnt but not too much. He cut through ground beef and sauce, slid it on Marina's plate with practiced ease, as Charlie poured the wine with the _gallo nero_ on the bottle. "So how'd you two meet?"

Don knew this was coming, knew it the moment he asked her over. He had a sudden remembrance of watching Andy Griffith reruns and Barney shouting, _Nip it! Nip it in the bud! _

"Marina's working with us on a case. She's in instrument appraisal."

Her fork paused, reflecting lamp light where there were no peppers and romaine. "Stringed instruments," she added, her voice quiet, accent almost briefly forgotten.

"The ten million dollar violin?" Alan said it like a question, _a lasagna covered question_.

Charlie tilted his head, the way he did when he was thinking, his eyes flickering to the ceiling and then over to Don, silently asking him to elaborate.

And Don was nothing if not obliging towards his younger brother, "Yeah." The salad bowl, a polished wood with mitered grooves, made its way around to him, "Belongs to an Austrian violinist on tour here in the States."

Marina let out a melancholy sigh, "Is such a beautiful one. A tragic loss if not found."

"I can imagine," Alan said, though he really couldn't. He paused, one elbow resting on the table top with chianti in one hand. The conversation was interrupted as Don pulled his vibrating cell phone off his belt, stepping back into the living room.

Alan turned his attention back to Marina, figuring that the dinner would be cut short, and so would her visit, "You're not from around here..."

Don crossed the space between the couch and the window and back again, Charlie watched as he murmured something and then listened for several minutes. He slid his brown jacket on, cell phone securely tucked under his chin and then laid Marina's coat over his arm. He spoke briefly then abruptly hung up. The hurry left with the telephone call, Don stepped back to the table and laid a hand on Marina's shoulder.

"I hate to break this up," Alan frowned, mentally protesting the intrusion. "Marina, the lab results are back and David's got a name he wants you to check out."

She took one last bite of the lasagna and wiped her fingers on the napkin as Don helped her into her coat. Alan couldn't help but think that she was more than a consultant. _ Why else would Don bring her home? _

"Thank you for lovely meal, Mr. Eppes." She clasped his hand in both of hers, calloused fingertips tightening the grip. "I cook for you all sometime."

_Definitely more than a consultant._ "We would like that."

Alan was about to invite them back for desert later when Don's phone rang again. He answered quickly and waved a quick goodbye as he picked up his files and followed her out the door. The sound of the SUV coming to life was muffled by the thick door. Headlights flashed through the front room and Alan scrubbed a hand over his forehead.

_And then there were two._

"What was that all about, Dad?" Charlie motioned at the two half-empty plates, before adding another piece of lasagna to his plate.

"I wish I knew, Charlie. I really wish I knew."

* * *


	8. Espressivo

A/N – Well, Paris had fallen… Which is why my update has taken so long to finally arrive. Thank you for sticking with me. My laptop has finally stopped being broken, so life is full of lovely Guatemalan roast and iambic pentameter once again!

* * *

"_**The aria sinking,**_

_**All else continuing, the stars shining,**_

_**The winds blowing, the notes of the bird continuous echoing,**_

_**With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning,**_

_**On the sands of Paumanok's shore gray and rustling,**_

_**The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down,**_

_**drooping, the face of the sea almost touching…"**_

_-Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking, Walt Whitman_

* * *

The time was closer to midnight rather than eleven. Moonlight was muted by steadily increasing clouds and the palms bowed under the heavy promise of rain. Humidity clung closer than kevlar, welding skin and fabric, stifling air and bodies crowded in the two distantly parked SUVs. 

His hand brushed against the dark plastic lid of the coffee cup, the brew long since cold, still drinkable and slightly stale. Don traded the half full cup for a pair of binoculars that Megan had set on top of the dashboard. He raised the glasses and studied the dim lighting of the beach house, a study in Frank Lloyd Wright and Californian sensibilities.

The house was empty and the car radio silent. Don turned the keys and the background hum of the fan shut down.

It was show time.

_Don nearly collided with David Sinclair as he entered the war room, mind half on the cellular conversation, the other on the excited whispers in the corner. Marina was rapidly speaking, adamantly pointing to a photo of a handsome man, olive skin and a thick black moustache, projected on the large screen at the eastern end of the room._

"_Okay, that was ICE with the alert. Hunley's making a break for Madrid at o-five-hundred on Iberian Air."_

Vicenzio Hunley, the half-Italian, half-South Carolinan son of a Sicilian opera star and old Rebel money. His mother was dead and his father so entrenched in business he failed to see the ill-advised contacts his son had made over the years, partly through his mother's family, partly through living in a playground reality, leaving behind mis-steps of a failed viola theft in Prague two years before. A situation money and contaminated evidence resolved quietly.

_There were advantages to working with a family-based syndicate…_

That didn't prevent Interpol from leaving a nasty little flag next to his name, leaving him unwanted in certain members of the European Union and a top contender of Agent Hamil's list of sticky-fingered enthusiasts.

David Sinclair had compared that list to the names of the ticket-holders of the night before. A little excavating showed that Hunley's had been in the name of his mother, not changed since her death five years ago. Security footage showed him leaving the concert in a Lamborghini imported along with Alessia Hunley when she was a young bride.

_Marina had recognized the man from Christie's, he had her appraise an Amati cello that almost made the auction block. Hunley backed out of the sale at the last minute, Kayakova begged that he contact her if he ever changed his mind. _

"_He wanted to keep it longer, wanted to get a better price for it," she explained. "Now I think to make fake copy…"_

_"Makes sense," Don balanced on the edge of the table. "Both glue samples from the violins matched. He's introducing fakes slowly..."_

_"Slowly enough that no one notices," Megan finished, discovery in her voice. "Has the real instruments appraised, finds clientele and sells them the forgeries for a profit. Not a bad plan, really" _

_"So then," Marina queried. "What happen to real instruments?"_

_Don hopped off the desk, "What do you say we pick Hunley up and ask him?" _

_Numb3rs...Numb3rs...Numb3rs... _

Friday night in Malibu was a wild place to be, the endless traffic paired with the deep, pulsating rhythm of nightclubs and beach parties. The low backbeat of two different songs teased the agents. _Because, after all, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy._

The coffee's aftertaste was bitter and strong, Don pulled the half-empty pack of gum from the cupholder, offered a piece to Megan and then took one himself. It was spearmint, _he'd never been one for all the fruity flavors. _He double-checked the Glock in his vest, his hand ran along the velcro closures, not finding a gap he wasn't expecting anyway.

_Don leaned over the table, both arms spread out over the surface as he studied the map, the adrenaline ramping through. Marina set a coffee cup in front of him, folding her arms across her chest as she watched the sudden action, the plan being placed. He smiled inwardly, they had a suspect. On the flip side, Contestant Number One was trying to take off with the prize behind Door Number Two.  
_

_"ICE is keeping their eyes peeled at LAX for any sudden departures." The door snapped open as Colby came jogging in, "Are we ready to go?" _

_"Just about."_

_The former soldier had his kevlar partially on, he motioned to Don to help him fasten the sides, "I googled the freeways and its pretty clear tonight. Shouldn't take much more than a half hour to get to Malibu." _

_"Good, that's good." _

_The war room door opened again, David and Megan coming through, "Hey, guys..."  
_

_Don gave the musician a smile and sipped at the hot drink, "Thanks." His eyes dropped down to the kevlar vest she was eying, "We'll get it back, Marina."_

_The black lock curled tightly around her finger, "I know." Her hand rested on her hip, "Be safe." _

"_We'll be back before you know it." His tone was light, mannerisms easy, "Hey, I've still got to treat you to dinner."_

_There was a quick wave as Don followed his team out the door, coffee in one hand, the map in the other. _

"_I wait for that, priyátel…" Marina whispered as the elevator doors closed on him._

_Numb3rs…Numb3rs…Numb3rs…_

"I'm just saying that he looks a little like Snidely Whiplash is all."

Megan Reeves snorted at Granger's voice over the radio. She tucked her bangs back behind her ears, muttered something about bobby-pins while she paused against the fence line. Don was next to her, half-hidden behind low grown palm fronds, waiting. David and Colby were across the street in the SUV. Two other agents, Mills and Forsythia were hidden along the sea wall.

"Rocky and Bullwinkle? You've got to be kidding me, man," David's voice was half-amusement, half-mollification. There was a pause and then a sigh, "Why exactly..."

"Well, there's the moustache..."

A couple was weaving along the street, a block or so from where he watched. The two stumbled, recovering slightly as they made their way down the stairs that would lead them to the Pacific. He kept his eyes due south, the technician on his radio warning them that Vicenzio's cell phone was traveling the Pacific Coastal Highway, a half mile or so from his beach house.

Ginger Allen was all of sixty and had the sexiest bedroom voice Don had ever heard. It was dead on Marlene Dietrich, had the actress ever worked for the Feds. Ginger worked second shift, playing Ernestine the Operator for teams out on patrol and had for the past thirty years. He copied her then realized he could still pick up Colby comparing Snidely to Boris Badenov, who was declared the decidedly better villain.

_Next you know he'll be asking Marina to say 'Moose and Squirrel, darling...'_

_"Let's take 'Distract the Junior Agents' for six hundred, Alex."_

"You guys know that the Hunley was this old Confederate submarine?"

"A Civil War sub?" Megan was decidedly skeptical.

The wind started to pick up, sea air mixing with exhaust fumes, "It sank four times."

"No wonder they lost the war."

A pair of headlights slowed as the car came through a set of lights, blinkers coming on mid-turn. The comedy routine forgotten. _It was all business now…_

"Okay, we've got company."

Don sat up at the approaching car, it wasn't the Lamborghini. Instead, it was a red Mini-Cooper, an afterthought cliché that pulled in the drive. He could hear David called in the license plate as soon as it was visible, tensing as the car pulled to a stop, engine shut down. The windows were dark and heavily tinted, a shapely leg slid out from the driver's side.

She was a tall woman, five ten or more, long blonde hair with a denim mini-skirt and red baby doll t-shirt with bikini strings peaking out from her neck. _Heidi Klum's little sister. _She carried one of those large bags, like every other woman in Hollywood, the ones that could carry small dogs and the kitchen sink besides.

The phone was covered in rhinestones that glittered in the lamplight. She murmured something as she shut the side door with her hip. The conversation ended when the cell snapped shut as she turned to Megan in surprise when the profiler announced herself assertively and with her weapon drawn.

"FBI. Step away from the car."

Don came from around the back of the car, his Glock drawn. His eyes were trained on the interior, the heavy tinting reflecting slivers of moonlight. He shivered, his hands wavering briefly. A sudden zephyr undulating, echoing, like an _ostinato_, over and over again. The resonance wavered and faded into the waves.

_There was something about tonight, something that was more deceptive cadence than real resolution._

"What...?" Her confusion was paramount, but she didn't argue. Instead she let Megan take her arm and lead her away.

Agent Mills took Megan's former position, Forsythia went towards the shotgun side. Don counted down with his fingers, watched David bring the SUV from behind in the reflection off the Mini's window. _Three, two, one..._

Sinclair's impression shattered in a mess of strobe lighting and panic alarms. Don shielded his eyes, halos and flashes of light interrupting his view. He didn't see it coming and sure as hell couldn't see anything after it started. There was a rush of exhaust and what he was sure was the sound of an four cylinder inline.

"Turn off the car, now!"_  
_

Trying to twist out of the way, the squealing tires in the background and a flash of tail light threw him off as the bumper swept him off his feet. Don felt himself flying backwards, his head hitting the pavement almost the exact moment a tire rolled over his leg.

"Agent down! Agent down!"

"Get out of the car now! Get out now!"

"Don, can you hear me...?"

There was something grabbing at him, fingers on his neck, on his face.

_God, would they just leave him alone?_

Don wished they'd stop yelling, he really did. Mrs. Petrie never liked dissonance and neither did he. It was harsh and threw off the harmony. There was something terribly wrong and the piano wouldn't play the chords he slammed his hands into. Fingers franticly searched for the last note, the one that would finish the meter. But it wasn't there. It was gone and Don was sure he couldn't play anymore.

The sheet music finally threw him a coda.


	9. Intermezzo

A/N - Thanks all for your sweet reviews.

Anonymous you certainly are persistent. I wish RL was as forgettable as you claim.

Thank you...

* * *

"_**So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul**_

_**Should be resurrected only among friends**_

_**Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom**_

_**That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room."**_

_-Portrait of a Lady, T.S. Eliot_

* * *

She reacted before she even thought when she ran, dragging the girl along with her, turning her over to Agent Mills before running to Don's side as Granger, Sinclair and Forsythia pulled Vicenzio Hunley from behind the wheel. _Of a British imported Mini. _

_It had been Hunley driving all this time..._

Megan slipped her Sig away as she rounded the back of the Mini. Her SAC was laying on the drive, down for the count and right leg cocked at an odd angle below the knee. She knelt down next to him, traced the raw skin on his jaw, bruises already forming.

Several car doors slammed and Colby growled somewhere behind her, "One reason. Just one. That's all I need, you son of a bitch."

The pavement was warm and a breeze weaved through the tendrils of her hair, "Don, can you hear me?" Megan found a pulse and held his face in her hands as Don's fingers flexed and fluttered in the slightest movement. "Listen Don, I've got you."

"Agent down, requesting ambulance assistance to last reported position."

David's boots crunched on gravel, "Damn... His leg..."

There it was, a small splash at first, but now a continuously growing pool that shimmered grotesquely, _beautifully,_ in the moonlight. Don faded into a blur as Megan scrubbed at her eyes, then wadded her FBI windbreaker and held it out towards David, "Here... Use, use this..."

"God, Megan..." He had already taken off his belt, tightened it around Don's thigh in a tourniquet. He looked at Megan, his hands trembling, motioning at his handiwork and asked quietly, "Are we even suppose to anymore?"

She shrugged and offered the jacket again, uncertain of what exactly to do and completely mesmerized by the sight of blood seeping into Sinclair's jeans.

David took it and pressed down, _there was so much blood, so much everywhere..._ There was a quaver followed by a sob as Don tried to shake him off, his body shaking and dry coughs stopping him.

"We got you, Don..." Megan's voice caught in her throat as she saw his eyelids flutter. "Don, listen. Open those eyes for me."

They never really opened all the way, just enough so that she could see glimpses of brown and white, not exactly focused, not entirely lucid.

"Meg'n?" His hand trembled as she held it tight and his voice somewhere below a whisper.

She gave him a sad smile, "Yeah, Don. It's me. We've got you, okay?"

David craned his neck around her shoulder, catching a glance as Reeves shifted to the side, "The ambulance is on its way. Not too much longer."

Certain that Don had heard him, David was almost sure that the stain was slowing. There was another whimper and Megan said something soft and low.

The bouncing red and blue lights played across Colby's face as David watched him and the other agents escort the suspects to the SUV. He jogged back over, a blanket from the trunk in hand, worry playing over his face, "How's he doing?"

"I don't know…"

Colby tucked the blanket around Don's shoulders, "You warm enough, Don?"

A bleary gaze shifted his way. "C-cold," he stuttered.

"Not too much longer."

Don grimaced and almost nodded. Colby pinned his arms down and rubbed at them, generating warmth, trying to keep him awake.

"G-got 'em?"

"Yeah, we got him, boss." There was a hit of a laugh in Granger's response, "We're gonna work on your duck and weave though."

Don started to say something, but it caught in his throat and his laugh turned to harsh coughing. Colby rubbed his knuckles along Don's sternum.

"Ra'vy…" He finally said, his voice raspier, softer than it had been before.

"What Don?" Megan leaned closer to hear.

He blinked, almost sleepily, "S'all gravy…"

Colby raised his eyebrows, "Gravy?"

"Cha'lie said…" Don struggled up a little, Colby still held him down, "I dead b'fore. S'all gravy, extra…"

"Don, don't…" Megan started.

Don laid slack against the pavement as the sound of the ambulance steadily grew louder, blocking the waves, the sounds of the late night parties. They could barely hear what else he was saying.

"S'kay. S'all gravy."

_Numb3rs…Numb3rs…Numb3rs…_

David Sinclair sat white-faced and completely silent as the ambulance hustled along the PCH with lights flashing and the sirens shrilling. It was a straight shot down the One to the UCLA Medical Center in Santa Monica. _And the sooner they got there, the better._

_He had pulled the SUV in place, but the idiot Hunley decided to make a break for it anyways… A house alarm went off and he watched in horror as Don's face melted to surprise and then shock as he was thrown on his back, screaming when the tire…_

He swallowed again as one of the paramedics lost balance and elbowed him as the vehicle swerved and continued on. The man didn't apologize and David didn't want him to.

_Damn gravy…_

The woman on the other side of the gurney said her name was Bev and her partner was Steve. They spoke in clipped tones, she had asked if one of the agents wanted to ride along and when David climbed in they asked him to stay out of the way.

David was okay with that, too.

_He just wasn't okay with gravy._

They were worried about spinal injuries, so they put on a C-collar and strapped Don to a backboard. The leg, _blood seeped through denim, _was immobilized and splinted and words like _crushed, arterial pulses _and _open fracture_ were thrown around.

It was hard to watch. There was an oxygen mask, an IV… And Don looked so small, so damn small and so immaterial that if David took his eyes off him, he was sure he'd vanish, the tenuous thread of mortality shattered.

"Danny, where's that lead foot of yours? We could use it now…"

From the back windows, David could see cars pulled over to the edges of the road, making room for the ambulance and lighting the way, reminding him of garden lights and a stone path he had seen in a movie once.

They raced along faster it seemed, if that was even possible. And David prayed. Prayed as hard as he could because he sure as hell didn't want to tell Alan and Charlie that Don was channeling Raymond Carver and thought everything was gravy…

_Numb3rs...Numb3rs...Numb3rs..._

Colby Granger knew how to wait. He first learned in OTS, _wait for the commanding officer, wait for orders, wait for yada… yada… yada…_ He had a second lesson in Afghanistan. Again, it was waiting for orders, waiting for his commanding officer to give those orders.

Sometimes, it was him waiting for the right moment to give out his own.

He had learned to wait in the hospital, both on the receiving and on the update end of things. It wasn't hard to wait if he had been the one admitted. Either he had been out cold or too drugged up to notice.

And now wasn't particularly difficult either because he had someone to arrest, distracting him from what was going down in Santa Monica.

Forsythia insisted he ride shotgun, said he was too distracted to drive and too likely to kill if Hunley so much as moved. Colby silently agreed and then mentally pushed the vehicle forward as they headed back downtown.

Andrew Mills was a big man and handled Hunley himself, and then told Colby to get his ass back to the hospital. And he did, after Hunley's girlfriend was taken too.

He had found Marina sitting at Don's desk, talking to a picture when Colby had come back to grab a book he never really read during times that he'd have to wait.

The way the color in her face drained when he was the only agent of the four to come back let him know that she knew something was terribly wrong.

"I go with you," was all she said as she grabbed her jacket and shoved the picture frame in her purse as she walked with him.

He didn't argue, didn't have to tell her to hurry up and when it came right down to it, resistance was futile and he was in no mood to start a Cold War all his own.

_Numb3rs…Numb3rs…Numb3rs…_

Charlie Eppes sat in the middle of the seat, behind his father and Megan Reeves. She had filled them in, an edited version he figured. _After all, it didn't take a genius to see how she had hemmed and hawed. _

He shivered as the air blew back from the fans, listening to his father mutter to himself out the window. Megan looked at Charlie in the rearview mirror and he saw her worry as she sped the SUV along faster.

The clock on the console said that it was only a few minutes after two. Charlie bent his head over, letting his face get buried in his old Princeton sweatshirt, "Which hospital?"

They passed a Range Rover and then a BMW. "UCLA in Santa Monica," Megan said.

It looked like she might say more when her cell phone rang. Charlie tuned her out when he saw the paper coffee cup and magazine shoved in the console. It was a Sports Illustrated. _They were riding in Don's truck…_

Charlie rubbed at his nose and then stared at the basketball swishing through the hoop. He knew Don kept the magazines there, knew he only had enough time to read them in moments he stole when waiting for an interview or even for when he was inevitably stuck in traffic.

He didn't have to worry about that though as Megan flipped on the lights and somehow it seemed they were almost flying.

_Numb3rs…Numb3rs…Numb3rs…_

_F sharp, G sharp, A sharp, C sharp, D sharp, and then back again…_

The black key pentatonic scale. It sounded like southeastern Asia, Miss Saigon and kung pao chicken. Don kept his fingers on the ebony, repeating the notes over and over again, then transposed the scale half a step down.

_E flat, F natural, G natural, B flat, C natural, E flat…_

He started to fall into Chopin's Etude in the G flat major scale. It was a difficult piece, rapid and light, a black key composition. Margaret told him once that the Opus Ten, Number Five had always reminded her of waterfalls. _Waterfalls and fairy tales…_

_Slowly at first_, Don's fingers tripped and stumbled, gradually gaining confidence as he went along. _It was like being welcomed home after a long absence_. The etude wasn't a long piece, when properly played it came in at just about two minutes. With all the stops and hesitations, it took him somewhere around ten.

He rested his hands, slightly tingling, on the top of his thighs. The sweatpants were forest green and dusty, his t-shirt covered with grass stains and his baseball cap lay haphazardly off the corner of the upright. _He had just gotten off baseball practice, hadn't he?_

Starting again and gaining speed, the _arpeggios_ evened out and the etude sounded closer to how it was written. Chopin was noted for his _cantabile_, his notes quirking to an almost human-like song. _He was playing with a speech impediment. _The phrase _crescendo_ and then died away into _perdendo,_ fading to nothing, as a hand rested on his shoulder.

"You're getting there. Try it again."

He ran his hands through his hair and let his foot rest on the damper petal. Pressing down through the _legato_ left a pain riding up through his leg. With technique forgotten, the notes went from _pianissimo _to a crash as Don let his head fall on the keys.

"Damn it," he muttered, pressure building in his skull, a throbbing he couldn't shake or leave behind.

Warm circles rubbed across his back and Don wondered when his Dad had time enough to move the piano up from the dining room to the solarium. The bench was worn down, nicked in places; he gripped the edge with his fingers, knuckles going white.

"It hurts, Momma…"

She shifted closer to him on the bench, drawing his head to her shoulder, "I know, baby. I know…"

* * *

Okay, so here's the poem that I referenced earlier. Its a really great one!_  
_

_No other word will do. For that's what it was._

_Gravy._

_Gravy, these past ten years._

_Alive, sober, working, loving, and _

_being loved by a good woman. Eleven years_

_ago he was told he had six months to live_

_at the rate he was going. And he was going_

_nowhere but down. So he changed his ways_

_somehow. He quit drinking! And the rest?_

_After that it was all gravy, every minute_

_of it, up to and including when he was told about,_

_well, some things are breaking down and _

_building up inside his head. "Don't weep for me,"_

_he said to his friends. "I'm a lucky man._

_I've had ten years longer than I or anyone_

_expected. Pure gravy. And don't forget it."_

_Gravy, Raymond Carver _


	10. Acciaccatura

A/N - Hey all. Here I am apologizing for another bit of a gap in posting. I moved this past weekend and had no idea how much junk I owned till now. If anyone knows of a magical organization fairy who can make it all livable please send them my way!

Thank you to all who are leaving anonymous reviews and to those I can't reply to. They're really sweet.

* * *

"_**Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard**_

_**Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;**_

_**Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,**_

_**Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone…"**_

_- Ode to a Grecian Urn, John Keats_

* * *

The air was sacred and quiet, a handful of flames wavered from their votives as the door closed with a gentle hiss. It was long past visiting hours; that had ended some time ago. Alan shoved his hands deep in his denim pockets, the tails of the rumpled plaid shirt were untucked and coordinating with raspy, gray stubble. He took a seat in the back pew, the soft carpet muting his footsteps, leaving his companion nearer the front undisturbed. 

Charlie had gone missing sometime in the last several hours. Alan wouldn't have even noticed him gone, except for when the doctor asked him to step out of the room while they checked under bandages and whatever else they had to do, it was only him the nurse escorted from the room. So he was left to wander the hall, disoriented when his youngest failed to materialize. A nurse was kind enough to tell him she had seen the younger man head towards the elevators.

Alan wandered down to the cafeteria. A few interns stood in a huddle that parted and moved towards the cash register as he pulled a paper cup from the stack. The coffee was hot and he drank it too fast, burning his tongue. There was a table far in the corner, he spent the time watching the waiting families and professionals. They blurred together like a watercolor when he realized that he was crying.

They had brought Don in the night before. There had been a long operation and very little sleep in a small, corner waiting room close to a nearly broken vending machine. Colby bought everyone nutty buddies and runts and Alan had never been so glad for those tiny candies. Marina had come and sat quietly in the corner. Alan never bothered to ask why.

His thoughts were broken as he watched Charlie stand up and walk towards the front of the small chapel. The light played across the professor's hair and hands as he lit a taper near the top edge of the stand. He stood there a long moment, shoulders slumping impossibly downward and eyebrows slightly raised as he turned and saw Alan.

"Dad?" There was a low note of panic in Charlie's words.

Pulling himself off the bench, Alan walked towards the front, "He's fine. They're checking him over."

Charlie nodded and then sat heavily back down. Alan joined him as the vigil lights cast a hypnotic spell over the room, "Susan..." Charlie leaned forward on his elbows, clearing his throat, "I met Susan Berry in church."

It was Alan's turn to raise his eyebrows, "I was there on an acoustics project, using Fourier... harmonic analysis. She was there to light a candle for her grandfather. He had pneumonia." Charlie leaned back again and rubbed a hand across his face, "Susan came every morning at eleven and pretty soon we were going to lunch together. She asked me about the orthogonality between sine and cosine and I asked her why she came every day. She said that he lived so far from her..."

Alan laid a hand on Charlie's back, massaging the knots there, "Susan said that maybe if she lit a candle every day, then God wouldn't forget her grandpa." His voice fell towards a whisper, "The superposition principle didn't seem quite so important after she said that."

They sat there, Alan left his arm on his son's back, eventually letting it rest on his shoulder, "It reminds me of the Hanukkah candles."

Charlie smiled at that, "Would it surprise you if I told you I said the second blessing when I lit it?"

"I think Don would appreciate that."

_Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe, who wrought miracles for our fathers in days of old, at this season. _

"I thought he might." Charlie shifted to face his father, more than light flickered in his eyes. "Dad, I'm scared. When they said that they weren't sure the rod would be enough..."

His words dropped off when he saw Alan wince and close his eyes, "Charlie..."

"That head injury is more than a concussion," The younger man nearly hopped as he stood back up. "Why else would he think he's going to miss his chance at the majors 'cause of a leg injury?"

He shook his head and let a wisp of nostalgia take over, "Do you think Don misses it?"

"Baseball?" Alan shrugged a little, "I would think so. You wouldn't guess it looking at him though."

It was a night for silence, questions didn't really need answers and answers didn't need any elaboration. Instead the pair sat there quietly as the ambient light through stained glass increased and an older woman joined them, crossed herself, lit a candle and clutched a strand of clear cut crystal that reflected in her hands.

"I'm gonna go back..." Charlie whispered.

Alan waved him on, "Go, I'll be up there in a few minutes."

Charlie slipped from the room. The woman gave Alan a nod which he returned. They were comrades-in-arms, in grief as they quietly acknowledged the other. She left as quietly as she came.

He approached the altar and picked up the white taper and lit a votive near the center of the grouping. For a moment he felt strange for what he'd just done. Then Alan thought that it didn't matter that much. He silently prayed the third blessing of Hanukkah, _"Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has kept us alive, and has preserved us, and enabled us to reach this time..."_

_Numb3rs...Numb3rs...Numb3rs..._

_A distinct echo of yellow rubber connecting with a racket came from the other end of row of courts, the sign read Leamington Spa. It was close to midday, he squinted as he moved his sunglasses from the collar of his white polo to his eyes. The green clay was firm as he bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting for the serve. _

_He studied the figure on the other side of the net. Terry wore a short baby blue skirt with a white tank, her hair back in pigtailed braids. Don smiled, he like her hair that way, long and a more chestnut color, the way she had it back when they were in the Academy. _

_"You're gonna serve sometime today, Lake?"_

_She laughed, missing the jadedness that had built up around her over the years, "I think the phrase is be careful what you wish for."_

_"What? You don't think I can take you?"_

_"You just keep telling yourself that, Don." _

_Her arm raised high above her head as she threw the ball in the air, slamming it forward with the racket. Don shifted over to the right side of the court and set the ball back towards the other side. Terry lunged out and swatted it back, landing outside the line._

_He could feel a line of sweat trickle down his back, "I think that would be fifteen to love, Ter." He knelt over, picked up the ball that was making a getaway near the chain linked fence. He set it bouncing between his hand and the court floor. Terry was waiting for him, her racket steady, her feet constantly in motion. _

_"I'm lulling you into a false sense of security, Eppes." _

_Don chuckled, "I think the word your looking for is loosing." He threw the ball up in the air and caught it, "Fifteen love." He threw the ball up once more and then hit it with full force. _

_Terry angled for it , "How about return to sender?" _

_"Maybe I should say the same thing." _

_Don was already to where she aimed but instead of making the serve, he tripped and went down. There was something wrong as he tried to get back up and then couldn't._

_"You trying for sympathy points, Eppes?" Terry jogged over to the net, her voice a curious mix of sarcasm and concern, "Cause they don't count." She gasped when Don turned to look at her, his hands clutching his leg, the white tennis shorts slowly staining a deep red. _

_His voice shook as he stared at the stickiness on his hands, "Something's wrong, Ter. Something's really wrong..."_

_Numb3rs...Numb3rs...Numb3rs..._

Alan shifted in the chair again. One of the nurses, Allie, he thought her name was, had pulled a recliner and cot in when she learned that he and Charlie had no intentions of leaving. He flipped through the Readers Digest, half reading an article on a chamber orchestra. Alan glanced up at the clock, it was after ten. Charlie had left half an hour ago or so to pick up a few things at home and to meet up with Amita and Larry.

Don was sleeping quietly now. When Alan had returned to the room earlier, the nurse was still there, first telling Charlie and then the both of them that there was an infection. She said that it wasn't a surprise really, what with how Don was injured in the first place. So they had started a more target specific antibiotic and it had seemed to help. His fever was lower and he looked better for it.

Alan reached over to the end table to pick up his now cold coffee. Back when it was warm, Don had been rambling about tennis and Terry Lake. Doctor Rolfhaus said it was the concussion, a pretty severe one, mixed in with the pain medications. He said the disorientation wasn't strange, that eventually, his thoughts would clear and Don would be fine.

He was surprised when he saw the family picture sitting on the nightstand. It had showed up sometime after Don had been moved to the private room, just when he wasn't sure. It was taken on Margaret's fiftieth birthday. They had a big party and someone, maybe Art or Rose, waved them together before she blew out the candles.

A smile teased the corners of his mouth as he thought of when Don physically dragged Charlie from the garage that afternoon. It was funny to see and everyone laughed at that. Alan redirected his attention back to the page, starting again at the top because he had never actually read it the first couple times through.

Not that he expected to this time either though.


	11. A Bene Placido

A/N - I'd like to say thanks again to all of you for reviewing. I appreciate it so very much. And a special thanks to anonymous, Oznet, Summer and Cris for their reviews. I'd send you a personal note if I could pm you. Thank you so much for taking the time to drop by!

* * *

"_**Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,**_

_**Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture,**_

_**Not even the best,**_

_**Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice."**_

_-Song of Myself, Walt Whitman_

* * *

_Twilight had begun to make its first appearance. A few extroverted stars reflected off the waves, the surf board broke through them silently leaving a mini wake behind. He paddled out to the west, toward the disappearing sun and the incoming waves. _

_The air was warm still; the coast always seemed cooler than the Valley, but not tonight. His wetsuit was in the truck, the swimming trunks working well enough for now. He had always preferred the feel of salt water over neoprene anyways. _

_Water was already drawing back into a wave. Don pulled himself up from the board with practiced balance, throwing his arms out at the last second to equalize. It wasn't a large swell, just enough to coast through to the shallows and then back again. A sort of beginners run to bring back summers long spent on the California shore._

_He swam further out. His board floated in the water, he sat in the middle, letting his legs hang over either side. The moon was full, pulling the tides along in a careless fashion and pulling him along with them. Don let his fingers dangle, water lapped at them, teasing him to go out deeper. _

_Way out on his left, the beach grew smaller and headlights from the roadway flickered on. The Pacific panned out in front of him on the right, stretching for miles. He could make out the dark shadow of a sailboat heading in towards the docks, lanterns hung off the bow, lighting the way. _

_The waves were crashing on shore, their strength gathering. He laid on his stomach as he stroked his arms through the water, pushing himself forward to a new wave, one that promised to tunnel. _

_The white foam rose quickly, nearly catching him off guard. But he went with it, riding the pocket, pushing closer to his inner "zen" and channeling the spirit of Duke Kahanamoku. It was nearly black in the almond tube, he rode towards the light from the pier, the ring of water dissolving, urging him forward. _

_The long board flew out at the last second; the last of the wave came crashing down behind him, nearly on top of him. The wave plowed him over the falls, his feet meeting the sand. He rolled with the waves and the water, the board following on its leash behind. Don let himself rise, breaking through the surface. He let the momentum push him to the shallows, letting out a loud whoop through the night air. _

_He held on to the board, wiped the salt water that was dripping from his hair. A breeze tugged at him, caressed his face, making him close his eyes in appreciation. Don hoisted himself up and then fell back on the board, watching the stars from where he lay. _

_Had he ever felt more alive than in this moment?_

_Sagittarius aimed his arrow at the Corona Borealis, the Northern Crown of the summer sky and Hercules seemed almost to reach out to play at the Lyra close by. The water soaked his hair and everything seemed so right. The heavens were close, the ocean closer still. Don let himself drift and lost himself to the currents._

_Numb3rs…Numb3rs…Numb3rs…_

Alan Eppes pulled up the collar of his jacket. The rain made a sudden appearance this morning as he made his breakfast, sugar-sprinkled oatmeal and a banana. He was trying to be good. His doctor told him that he needed to watch his cholesterol and the last thing Charlie needed now was another family member in the hospital.

He had left the dishes in the sink in a vain effort to reach the hospital sooner. The drive from Pasadena to Santa Monica was slow. Slower than normal, the traffic teasing him in an almost painful way, the storm bringing everything to a near standstill.

He ran across the parking lot, dodging and weaving through the cars, to finally shake off the excess water as he stepped through the revolving doors. The receptionist was different today, a woman nearing seventy with her hair pulled back in a gentle pug. She gave him a curt nod as she turned to talk to a young boy who pounded the bell on the counter.

The elevators were just around the corner. He pushed the up arrow and waited, checking his cell one last time before he turned it off. There were no messages or voice mails. Alan was glad to see it. Charlie said he would only call him if something went wrong during the night.

With the double doors closing behind him, Alan rested his head against the wall, his stomach sinking to his feet with the heady motion. Charlie had insisted he leave, eat a good meal, shower and sleep in his own bed. And then come back sometime the next day when he was more human.

Alan agreed to it reluctantly. Charlie had taken time out earlier the day before for himself, to eat and to sleep. _So then it had been his turn._ It was hard to leave though, Don's second full night in the hospital. His fever had yet to fully break and his unconscious ramblings continued, leaving everyone to wonder what he was seeing, what was going on inside his head.

An orthopedic surgeon was brought in and said the leg was_ salvageable_. So the good doctor put in a metal rod, fusing bone together. It had taken six hours and God knows how many screws; until finally somehow, like in the nursery rhyme, they put his son back together again.

Alan scrubbed his face with his free hand, the other holding his umbrella. It had been close, much too close for comfort. It left him thinking of the Tin Man on the Wizard of Oz and wishing that he could just tap his ruby slippers and take Don home.

But the Great and Powerful Oz wasn't done with him yet. An oil can wouldn't solve the problem. Doctor Rolfhaus said that months of physical therapy could possibly get rid of the inevitable cane and a few more after, the limp.

He stepped off on the fifth floor, the nursing staff hurried around him. They were in the middle of their mid-morning rounds, a few stopped to say hi. The door to room five eleven was cracked open slightly, a vaguely familiar voice rose and fell inside.

"Akhmatova lose much in translation. I think you like what she says in Russian much better."

Marina Kayakova's back was to the doorway. She had pulled a chair close to the bed, her legs tucked under her, right elbow on the mattress, Don's face hidden behind the recliner's back, "But you do not speak Russian. So I keep reading the English."

Alan leaned against the wall and watched her, half wondering where Charlie went.

"'..._I'll tell you, Lena, actually I thought it up myself, and there's no better song in the world.'_ See, Anna is very wise. Says the girl wins the_ tsarevitch _with her own heart. Is a beautiful story, _da?"_ Marina continued on with the reading, interjecting commentary and literal translations when the volume in her hand was not enough.

"I make copy of tape for you, _priyatel. _Wake up and I will show you."

Marina set the book on the chair as she briefly squeezed Don's hand and then turned to leave. She gave Alan a shy smile and then quickly walked from the room, brushing by him in the slightest of ways.

Alan stepped out of the way when one of the nurses entered. She was tall and pear-shaped, with short brown hair. The chart was pulled from the edge of the bed as she made a few notations and changed the IV bag.

The covers shifted slightly. "Agent Eppes?" The nurse leaned over the bed, the chart forgotten, clattered to the floor, "Can you open your eyes for me?"

Audrey Hepburn told George Peppard in _Breakfast at Tiffany's _that it should only take four seconds to cross over to the door and that she'd only give him two. It took the former city planner less than that.

"Don?"

The agent's head was already tipped toward the door, eyes blinking slowly, not quite taking everything in. The woman left, told Alan to keep his son awake while she paged the doctor. Alan tightened his grip, not certain if he should laugh or cry. Instead, he settled on resting his hand on Don's arm.

"Wha'...?"

The sound was hardly there, more a groan than anything. His arm was cool as well, Alan pulled the covers higher, nearly to Don's chin.

"You took on a car and lost." Alan had hoped for more his usual sardonic inflection, relief instead pulled at it incessantly. "Sound familiar?"

Don tightly shut his eyes, the steady beep of the heart monitor speeding up, his fingers twisting at the counterpane. His head was thick and heavy and instead of seeing the world in sharp relief, colors were muted and glazed over and all the words seemed so echo-y and far away.

The little drummer boy eased up a little; he thought that maybe someone was talking to him. Something towards the south had started to throb, and now that he was aware of it, the spasms seemed that much more palpable.

The voice was back again, proddingly persistent. The person sounded terribly familiar and just as worried. The waves were back though, swelling and pushing him to shore, faces started to take shape and words steadily cleared.

"…He'll be in here in just a moment so don't go back to Neverland or wherever the hell you're mind has been wandering the last couple of days."

Now that just wasn't fair. Sure there was that one time when he was about eight where he was convinced happy thoughts just might make him fly. But that was years and years ago. _What had happened? _He remembered having lasagna and… "Dad?"

Alan smiled. He didn't say Terry or Billy or even Captain Kangaroo, "Who else?"

"Wish I knew…"

Don's voice was quiet and slurred and Alan missed whatever else he had to say after Doctor Sawyer and two nurses took his place.

"Mr. Eppes," the nurse said. "If you wouldn't mind stepping out for a moment...?"

The hallway was mostly empty, a sudden dichotomy from the few minutes before. If he was in a western, it'd be high noon and he'd be walking, _(swaggering, maybe even moseying?)_ down the always dusty main street in the obligatory showdown with the bad guy in a black hat.

But the lighting was wrong, and the colors, vivid and sharp, not a dust cloud or sage brush in sight. A knot loosened in his chest. _Don was okay, he made it through another night._ He jerked from his reverie as a hand came down on his arm.

"Mr. Eppes, Don's girlfriend went to the lounge."

Alan looked up, eyes crinkling in question, "My... Who?"

Doctor Rolfhaus was a shortish man, silvery brown hair and overly full pocket protector. He motioned to the open room at the end of the hall, "The girl..." He paused, "I'm sorry, she was sitting with him most the morning. I just assumed."

Alan thumbed his chin thoughtfully, "Would you believe me if I told you I didn't know."

The orthopedic surgeon slapped a hand across his back, "Mr. Eppes, I didn't know about my daughter's boyfriend till they came back from eloping in Vegas. Nothing surprises me anymore."

Another man in light green scrubs passed the small man a chart and a pen. Doctor Rolfhaus signed and initialed in a few places, then tilted his head toward the lounge, "I'd say now is a unique opportunity to find out the truth."

Then he rushed off to Don's room as well.

Alan followed the advice mostly out of curiosity, partly out of nothing to do. He ambled slowly, the weather unconsciously wreaking havoc on his joints.

The two lamps on end tables opposite each other let off the only light, the sky was still dark outside, rain hit the windows with uneven intervals. She was standing at the counter, lifting the tea bag up and down, like a yo-yo. The black knit gauchos moved rhythmically as she crossed the floor.

"Marina..."

The tea splashed across the continent of Asia in her National Geographic, "Mr. Eppes." She motioned for him to join her on the sofa. "The nurse ask you to leave?"

"She had to change his bandages..." Alan cleared his throat, "He's awake now."

"Good." The musician nodded and set the magazine on the floor next to her, "How are you? Charlie say he need to make you rest."

"And he did..." There it was. Charlie was growing up, joining the world beyond the numbers. Alan was glad for the change, the maturity in his youngest. "May I ask, are you and Don...?"

Marina pulled a coaster near as she left the tea on the coffee table, "No, we meet just other night." She paused, her hand going to the back of her neck in a nervous gesture. Her look was serious and more than a little sad, "Let me tell you a story..."

_Numb3rs...Numb3rs...Numb3rs..._

The storm had lessened to a heavy rain, which was too bad. Charlie hated driving in the rain. He especially hated driving anything top heavy on the Ten in the rain. It was a trifecta of lousy driving conditions.

The radio wasn't playing anything he liked to hear, instead hit the play button on the cd player.

"_Hello, I'm Johnny Cash…"_

A crowd of prison inmates cheered and Charlie let his fingers drum in time with the guitar. He didn't mind this music. It was something he'd normally never choose on his own, today the mournful lyrics seemed right.

Megan Reeves stopped by earlier that morning and Marina after her. The professor begged for a ride to CalSci, he was stranded in Santa Monica and there was an emergency on campus. Kayakova said she would sit with Don and Megan would drop Charlie off at the FBI if Charlie didn't mind taking Don's SUV out to Pasadena.

So that's what they did. Half an hour later Charlie found a spot along the street near the mathematics building. Don didn't have an umbrella that Charlie could find. He riffled through the console, there were receipts and a pen from a construction company.

Charlie lifted the coffee cup, the wax had given way and the paper leaked. He could feel his throat constrict as his fingers came away wet and sticky.

He left the cup there and ran out in the rain.


	12. Con Dolore

A/N - I really just want to thank everyone for all your wonderful reviews. You're all being too generous but thank you. (anonymous, you made me blush!) I love hearing what you think of all this and hope you're enjoying this as much as I am.

* * *

"_**I keep my countenance,**_

_**I remain self-possessed**_

_**Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired**_

_**Reiterates some worn-out common song**_

_**With the smell of hyacinths across the garden**_

_**Recalling things that other people have desired…"**_

_-Portrait of a Lady, T.S. Eliot_

* * *

"Professor Eppes!" 

The Spanish red tiled floor under the overhang of CalSci's library was slick and Charlie nearly wiped out as the voice caused him to skid to a halt. He took a deep breath as he recognized Tessa Anderson, one of his TA's, wave him down from the door. The grad student had great instincts, exceptional memory. _And fantastically unfortunate timing._

Charlie let one arm drop to his side while the other still held onto the briefcase strap. Images of Steve McQueen on a motorcycle and a late night pizza with Don flashed through his head, "Yes?" His frustration was indeterminable after his third escape attempt over the last several hours. _Eurydice left Hades behind with greater ease. _

The door slammed behind her as she guarded a notebook under her sweater, "John just called me and said you were on your way out and I wanted to see if you'd had a chance to look over the names of possible Putnam nominees."

The professor sighed. Once he got away from one person, another came his way. The emergency, at least, had been real. Several grades had been called into question; Charlie had to pull records from his own files after they had gone missing from the main archives. They were buried in several filing cabinets, strangely lost after only being set away the week before.

Larry had helped him search and then offered a suggestion, _"Charles, have you considered the consequences of calculating the momentum of these documents so precisely that, according to Heisenburg, perhaps they could be anywhere in the universe?" _

Charlie had decided then that Larry had a terrible sense of humor.

"Listen Tessa, I have to go now…" He unconsciously raised his voice a level above the rain, one arm raised in explanation as the wind picked up and sent waves of water towards them. "I've got the list with me and I'll make my recommendations. I've got three weeks, right?"

"Yeah, you've got it. After last year's fiasco we wanted to make sure that the team selection is on track," Tessa said. The teaching assistant's voice softened a little, became less business like and more concerned. "Professor Fleinhardt mentioned what happened with your brother. Is there anything you need covered?"

He had to bite back the sharp retort on his tongue. _If people would quit talking to him and let him leave the campus that would be more than enough._ Instead he decided to be more civil, "Thanks, but no."

Tessa's response was hardly a whisper because he was already walking out by the time she said goodbye.

_Numb3rs...Numb3rs...Numb3rs..._

"Hey Reeves, have you called Leismuller yet?"

Colby Granger pulled himself away from his computer and nearly completed report as Megan Reeves slung her whiskey leather Coach _Legacy_ on her desk top, "He knows we have the Guaneri in custody."

The profiler crossed the aisle and took a seat in David Sinclair's place, "He started crying when I told him he could pick it up when the lab's done processing it."

"To each his own, I guess," Colby turned the chair on its axis and passed her a manila folder about an inch thick. "Here's all the photos, lab reports and the girlfriend's statement. If you want to go ahead and initial in the lower right hand corner, that'd be great."

Megan rolled her eyes at the drawling sarcasm and Bill Lumbergh impression, "Yeah, did you get the memos…?"

Her expressions were tired, burgundy dress shirt rumpled and hair tied back in a messy ponytail. Granger studied her closely as she took the glasses off the front of her shirt and grabbed a pen from his partner's workstation.

"How's he doing?"

After the initial take down, the last two days had been spent between clearing the beach house and jaunts between the FBI headquarters and UCLA. They had found the instruments in the basement: Leismuller's Guaneri, the Amati cello, the Stradivarius... Originals of every forged instrument that had passed through Vicenzio's hands. A stack of files located in the safe on the north bedroom's wall lead to three more arrests: the two men who had been constructing the copies and then a contact buyer who got the instruments out of the area

It probably helped that Hunley was a meticulous record keeper.

Granger had been there most the night, transporting the instruments back to the FBI and conducting the search for the original owners. But it was mid-morning now and was beginning to feel the last several days catch up with him. He had been to the hospital twice, once during Don's operation and then again yesterday after he had finished interrogating Vicenzio Hunley.

After he finished his report, he promised to make it to number three.

"Well, his fever broke. The doctors were hoping he'd wake up soon," Her loafers fell to the floor as she pulled her legs into Indian style on the chair, the file open and pages folded back along the horizontal spine. Megan's voice shuttered as she spoke, "I wish I could forget the whole damn thing…"

From the lower drawer, on the left, Colby drew a tall, narrow glass jar, "Peanuts?" He stayed half bent over, "I've got regular or honey roasted."

She motioned toward the jar in his hand and he passed it to her, "Served with this guy…" Granger's voice faded for just a moment, his mind already half a world away. "Travis Whitman. He was this demolitions expert, could make David look bad."

Megan snorted a little at that.

"No, seriously. I saw him disarm a car bomb outside the base in thirty seconds." Colby leaned back in his chair and threw a handful of nuts in his mouth, "The man had some serious _cojones._"

"Had?"

"I'm not about to call and ask him if they're still there, Reeves." She threw a handful of protein at him, Granger shielded his face quick enough, "Hey, the response fits the question."

"Your morality tale features a protagonist you're referring to in the past tense."

"Yeah well, I really don't need a grammar lesson right now."

The profiler saw the former solider hanging on by a thread, the culmination of the past and present, the memories dredged up by the current reality coming and blindsiding him as she watched.

"And you definitely don't look like my English teacher." Megan shrugged and Colby continued on, "Anyways… Whit was in a chopper on his way for a new assignment when an RPG took it down in Shahi-Kot province. Damn guerrillas. They had to hide in the mountains waiting for search and recovery...

"Took us three days to get them out of there. The pilot was pretty banged up and Whit wasn't doing much better. Same sort of injury…" Megan could almost hear the unsaid _as Don_ that Granger skated over.

"He's running a small airport out in Georgia last I heard. Took him a while to get back on his feet… He's doing fine now." Colby twiddled with the coffee mug in his hand, the Bank of Winchester logo fading where he held on to it. "You want some?" he asked.

Reeves shook her head no and he slunk off to the break room. David's chair didn't have armrests, so she picked up her shoes and walked across the way. The file rested on her keyboard, fingers folded beneath her chin. Megan appreciated Colby's efforts, the sentiments the former soldier stumbled to find, she really did.

She just hoped he was right.

_Numb3rs…Numb3rs…Numb3rs…_

The lighting was low in room five eleven, completely off near the bed. Partly for energy conservation, mostly to keep Don's headache down to a minimum. The one lone lamp off to the side was on and the television flickered quietly. Alan Eppes flipped through the channels, stopping when Don asked him to leave it on the Dodgers - Diamondbacks game. He was surprised Don's vision was clear enough to see what was on the screen, but sure wasn't going to argue.

They had put thirteen stitches in the back of Don's head. The black threads were covered with white gauze for now. And his son kept his head warily to the side to keep any pressure off. His eyes had drifted shut again. They were never open for very long, simply enough to see Alan at his side, maybe to press the button on the morphine pump. Though he didn't need vision to do that.

Once, he asked for the box scores.

Alan studied his eldest carefully, smoothing an arm tremor with his hand. The tremors came from being too cold and the cold came from anemia. The anemia was resolved with a transfusion. Yet it seemed that heat did not transfuse as well as blood did.

Several magazines had accumulated over the past couple of days and sat in two piles, one on the floor and the other on the nightstand. Someone had left a Robert Ludlum novel, but there were no pictures in it and demanded too much concentration, more than Alan had possession of. He could flip through pictures though, and there was no wordy plot to follow to see if Brangelina adopted yet another kid.

The jewel case with the dvd that Marina had given him in the lounge rested next to the photograph. Both were left on the nightstand where Don would see them. The violinist didn't tell him exactly what was on the dvd, said that it was specifically for Don. Then she handed him another one, said it was for himself when he had a chance to think and to be alone.

But those quiet words came long after their conversation.

_"Russia still very dangerous for Jews even though Pale of Settlement is long gone. Stalin try to destroy us, Putin has not helped us, some of the Gosduma try to ban..." She shook her head and then started again. "My parents tell me to leave country. Go anywhere, maybe to America, make aliyah to Israel like my brother... _

_"I apply to many schools, have good audition in Valencia," Marina tilted the cup on edge, bits of tea leaves swirling with the motion. "Israel is dangerous, Russia is dangerous. So I study at CalArts, focus on strings. Very lovely time."_

_Shadows played across the walls opposite the large bay windows, steady drops hit the glass window pane and trickled down one, by one, by one... Two grayish figures sat comfortably beneath the constant deluge, absorbing the water tints without so much as a fair-thee-well.  
_

_"Margaret really liked working with the students up there," Alan rolled and unrolled constantly the Entertainment Weekly in his hands. The repetitions calmed him, "She never talked about it much. Gave her something to do after Charlie left for London."_

_The smaller shadow affectionately patted the shoulder of the larger one, "We were all like Lost Boys in Peter Pan." Her words were softly fond, the edges of her mouth lifting slightly, "She Wendy den mother to all us silly children." _

_The shadow puppets ran across the wall and then came back again as a pair of headlights flashed briefly. An upraised hand for a short moment transformed to a peacock nestled in a mass of long curly hair._

_"Margaret was a lot like Don. Kept a lot of things to herself. She didn't talk about those Tuesday nights very often, just that she was tutoring." Alan chuckled a little, "I think she appreciated being able to actually understand and help with what you all were learning. We never could with Charlie..."_

_"And Don...?" she queried._

_There was a sudden sound of heavy breathing and then a call for a Doctor Karr over the intercom. Alan tipped his head, as if to hear something else, "We could understand his homework..." There was a shifting pause and then a question, "Why Los Angeles?" _

_"Why not?" Marina replied. Then more seriously, "Anna Akhmatova have the Neva, I have Pacific. There are palm trees with ocean and no Hamas. I have smart students and much work. It is very good." There was a quick gleam in her eye, "And there is always Disneyland."_

_Alan finished the last of his Earl Grey, his shadow doing the same, "Well, when you put it that way..."_

_Another drop of water fell, this one did not melt into the shadows but came down on human skin. It slipped away with an unnoticed path that sparked indistinctly, "I am so sad she is gone."_

_He more than heartily agreed as he wiped at more of the water droplets that kept insisting on coming down.  
_


	13. Apassionato Glissando

A/N - Thank you so much, each of you, for reviewing. It's so great to hear from you and I hope you enjoy this chapter especially. This particular one was such a struggle and a joy to write and I hope you love it as much as I do.

Thank you!

* * *

"_**Rain – he could hear it rustling through the dark;**_

_**Fragrance and passionless music woven as one;**_

_**Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers**_

_**That soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps **_

_**Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace…"**_

_-The Death Bed, Siegfried Sassoon_

* * *

Don shifted his weight in the bed, wincing as the stitches in his leg pulled and the constant ache from the hardware kicked up a notch. The button to raise the bed required a little extra push to get it near an up-right position, or at least above the mound of pillows propping up his leg. 

This had been nearly the first time in over a week where double vision hadn't sent him grabbing for the basin at his bedside. First time he really felt somewhat lucid.

_They had taken the thirteen stitches out the day before._

The window was on his left; the curtains opened to another day of rain, one not so much different from the last. Allie-the-nurse had pulled the blinds for him at breakfast, not particularly terrible, but not all that memorable either. The glittery green wheel spun around again and Don decided that Bob Barker was much more tolerable mute.

He pulled the over-the-bed-tray over his lap and set the magazines to one side. Ludlum sat on the recliner, _too far out of reach._ Instead, there was an old battered neon pink book with black lettering and a wrench on the cover. Don chuckled and then winced as his head reminded him to be more careful.

Alan, his father. Alan, the hippie. Alan, the unsubtle who leaves hints that would offend the blind. _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. _Don picked up the familiar volume with a crack on the spine and a cover with the right corner torn off.

_The journey is always worth more than the destination, Donnie. _

A sixties-something woman in a sweater with kittens jumped up and down when the little arrow landed on the eighty cent square and Bob ushered her towards the pink showcase podium. She had to bid on a motorboat and a week on the Sorbonne. Don thought her opponent with the South Seas adventure and the pair of Sea-Doos had the better prize.

The pages were mostly dog-eared as he flipped through them. He had started it the day before and got a few pages in before Charlie had set up camp at his bedside with a laptop and a small library. It had started innocently enough, with a text here and there. That's what Allie-the-nurse had told him anyways.

Don had been at UCLA for ten days now and he knew that because there were ten texts in a sloppy diagonal on the floor by the blue recliner. Nightshift Allie with the pretty gray eyes and brown hair with blue highlights said there had been a book for every day he had been there. The thicker books came on Don's worse days.

_There were six books over two and a half inches wide…_

Larry assured Don that none were on the structure of polynomial time reducibility. He was certain he had never heard that term before. He was almost just as sure that the physicist meant that certain unsolvable problems were remaining unsolved.

The grandmother won and red-winged blackbirds took the front. He thumbed a page at the knock on the door and momentarily debated feigning sleep. The decision was already made for him as two pair of feet fell in lockstep toward his bed.

Two women, one tall and one short, one modeling Curious George and the other, solid Pepto-Bismol, both gave him twin smiles and reminded him of old Double-Mint gum commercials and that journeys of a thousand miles begin with one step.

_Double your pleasure, double your fun…_

"How are you doing, Don?" The Man in the Yellow Hat perpetually tried to coax the curious monkey from a palm tree as Jenny leaned in to take his vitals. Her ponytail was streaked with gray and it hung down like a thick mass of rope. She smelled faintly of lavender.

He shrugged and gave a _so-so_ gesture, "Leg throbs a bit…"

"See Ann, I told you he was with the government, being all PC like that," She told the nursing assistant as she glanced down at her watch and then back at her patient again. "You can be honest, won't hurt my feelings any."

Don exhaled loudly at her smirk as she released his wrist. She was fast and gentle, hands mostly warm. It was fine and then she pulled back the blanket on his leg, "Want to wiggle your toes for me?"

He hated this part, it hurt and _who really gave a damn if he could make all the little piggys run home? _Don rolled his eyes a little and Ann laughed, her cheeks blushing a light pink like the sweetheart roses that sat in the kitchen window sill at Charlie's house. But he did, she had asked him too, and nicely at that. Don winced and cursed the Mini and stupid thieves who tried to escape.

She pressed on the nail beds and adjusted the pillows, muttering something about pressure sores and two hour intervals. Don knew the routine and wondered if waterboarding would be a way to throw the monotony.

"Alright, you've earned a reprieve."

Don swallowed back a groan as he closed his eyes. It creeped him out, he thought maybe he could feel the pins grating at bone, "Y-you're all heart, Jen."

Ann had refilled the picture by his bed and left a paper cup with medication. Jen pushed it towards him sympathetically, "It'll get better."

"That's what they keep telling me," Don tossed the cup in the trash can that Ann held up for him.

The older nurse patted his shoulder, "Is there anything I can get for you?"

He almost said no, till he remembered his brother's laptop on the chair. Don asked for it and the women cleared the table and looped the power cord to the outlet. They said no problem in response to his thanks, closing the door behind them as they left.

Don raised the bed by degrees, made it upright and started searching through Charlie's music collection. He skipped the Fray and passed on James Blunt. The Bob Dylan was too cliché for the weather outside. Rain on the window sped up, hitting at quicker intervals. Don didn't recognize A Fine Frenzy.

The blue jewel case still sat on the nightstand. A random thought of superheros ran through his head. Don turned to reach for it, stretching ever so slightly and wishing for Mr. Fantastic's rubber arms. Because maybe if art imitated life, and he was Mr. Fantastic; Megan would be his Invisible woman, David would be the Thing and Colby, the Human torch. _Charlie just might be cool enough to be the Silver Surfer._

_Having Jessica Alba nearby wouldn't be an inconvenience either …_

The agent scored a small victory as he slid it along the edge closer to the rail, his attention averted when there was another hesitant knock on the door.

"Door's open," he called, sitting up a little straighter and closing the laptop's lid.

He couldn't see who came in; the jutting corner of the bathroom shielded his view. Then if Robert Pirsig was right, everything was okay and guessing footsteps was just apart of the game.

"Agent Eppes."

Gregor Leismuller was a different man than he was eleven days ago. His tone was self-assured, his back erect and he seemed genuinely _happy_ as he clutched a familiar shaped black case in his hands.

The man was still quiet, however, as Don motioned a free chair to him, "I take it that's the Guaneri?"

"Yes…" Leismuller held it affectionately and with great care. "I just come from FBI. Your Agent Reeves returned it to me." He dropped his head almost shyly, "I have no words to thank you, Agent Eppes. What you have done…"

Don wasn't sure if it was from the haze he found himself living in these days or perhaps maybe it was Pirsig's Chautauqua, but suddenly Keat's beauty and truth, _truth and beauty,_ were really all he needed to know. _And maybe all that mattered…_

"I am in your debt, Agent Eppes. This is a great gift and you have sacrificed much."

He had been thanked before. He had saved _lives_, gotten rid of the bad guys and lived long enough to ride off into another sunset. He had been hurt before too. Nothing like this though. Never like this.

It was only a violin.

_Megan was leaning back deep in her chair, thoughtfully chewing on the end of her pencil as she studied a picture, "Almost three hundred years old, Don. Can you imagine… what it's seen? Where it's been?"_

It was only a violin and it was more than that as well. Gregor Leismuller was a stop on that violin's journey, where it would end no one could say. And now, Don Eppes was a part of it too, part of the provenance, the story and varied history of the instrument. _Part of something bigger than himself…_

Saying 'you're welcome' wasn't enough.

It was all he had.

_Numb3rs…Numb3rs…Numb3rs…_

Alan Eppes balanced the two large coffees in the tray against his chest. The bagels were wrapped tightly and tucked under his arm as he hit the button on the elevator. The lift jumped to start, warm drops of coffee ran down the front of the beige windbreaker.

He was tired of all the rain. It had started and never stopped, something that usually only happened in the fall or winter months. Maybe it was global warming, maybe it was something else. Whatever it was, he hoped it would stop. Whatever it was, he wanted to see the sun sometime again.

The doors opened at the end of a long corridor, divided by conferences rooms and storage in the middle, the nurses station fixed halfway between. Alan stepped off quickly, had never been fond of the things and headed down the northern side.

It was nearly noon now, Alan had left for a business meeting with his partner and several clients. He had hoped to make it back earlier than he did, but it was LA. Traffic was always a legitimate excuse.

There was a Starbucks kittycorner from the medical center. _There was always a Starbucks kittycorner from everything…_ And Alan was fond of their _Bella Florentina_. He had stopped at a bakery for the bagels and cream cheese. _He doubted that Don would be up for lox now._

Soft music, a sonata or concerto perhaps, drifted down the hall. _Maybe the nurses like classical,_ he thought. Sheltering his prize, Alan was looking forward to surprising his son. Don would enjoy it, _even if it was decaf._

The few nurses were walking the halls, mostly looking down at their charts, all had their heads cocked toward Don's door. Alan quickened his pace, holding the cups more tightly, the paper bag more securely.

He edged the handle open with his elbow, pushing back with his arm. There on the blue plastic chair, sat a man with a violin tucked under his chin. His posture was perfect, back straight, delicate fingers holding the bow in a firm grip. He moved with the music. No, he was moving _in_ the music. The violinist was a part of that song, and pushed himself to send the sound farther.

Alan loosely closed the door and walked around to the other side of the bed. He went unnoticed; the musician was lost to his trance, _in his worship._ The coffee was forgotten on the window ledge and the bagels besides them.

He was certain then, that this was the end result of Don's work. A payment for services rendered and property reclaimed. The rich _vibrato _tugged at something deep and he was in awe of that passion.

Don noticed him then, gave him a smile and a look that said that everything was alright. Alan saw the half-open book and thought that Don was right, maybe everything would be okay because the end really didn't matter. It was right now that counted, right now that they were living, _that Don was living…_

And they had music.


	14. Accompagnato

A/N – Hey there! I'm back. Thanks again to all of you who've been reviewing and even to those who haven't. (But you know you want to, everybody's doing it. Right?)

We're getting near the end here, probably just an epilogue to go.

Shaolingrrl, the Theismann's for you!

* * *

"…_**The blue guitar**_

_**Becomes the place of things as they are,**_

_**A composing of senses of the guitar."**_

_-The Man with the Blue Guitar, Wallace Stevens_

* * *

"You heard the good Professor, David," Colby grunted as he lifted the back of the recliner, with his knees _and not his back_, on to the bed of the SUV. "Of course there's enough room in the back for this." 

David Sinclair hoisted the chair on its side as they rotated it clockwise, nearly catching his chin on the footrest that popped out when the lever caught on the side of the vehicle. The two men paused in unvoiced synchrony, Colby gaining a firmer grip on the brown leather and David pulling off the now cockeyed sunglasses.

"No Colby, of course you don't have to take out both seats. See here's the algorithm I devised to prove it mathematically."

David rolled his eyes again at his partner's drawling sarcasm. Normally Granger got along fine with the mathematician, even when he wasn't speaking plain English. Sinclair thought he heard a little satisfaction in the man's tone though; Colby _had_ said that Don's recliner wouldn't fit unless they took out both of the bench seats.

"Come on man, let's get this in before we drop it."

"I'll show you something you can drop," Colby muttered, hefting up and pushing forward. He paused, "It's not catching on anything, is it? I'd hate to rip the leather."

Tugging on the yellow sheet, Sinclair felt along the edge in search of tears, "No, we're good. Let's go."

The two men gave it a final heave before their load slid all the way in, "Where do you think Charlie went? He said he was coming right down."

"Probably heard all your bitchin' Granger and decided to keep out of the way."

"Hey, I'm just saying…" Colby ran his hand across his chin where it then moved across and down the back of his neck. "That you don't have to have a Ph.D. to figure out what shape isn't gonna fit."

"Yeah, you should know. You play enough tetris…" David's response was cut off as the sound of heavy jogging as they saw the man in question hurry down the stairs of the brick. Charlie Eppes had a full black duffle over a shoulder and a black trash bag over the other.

"Sorry guys, I remembered to grab some of his shoes and I didn't know which ones he wanted." He looked rather sheepish at the sight of the gray bench seat resting on the curb, "I think there's room in Don's storage locker for that…"

The doors probably slammed a little harder than necessary before Colby motioned for the keys and the two agents picked up both ends on three and headed back inside the seven story brick building.

Charlie watched the two disappear behind the heavy green door, smiling slightly at Granger's wink and David's loud laughter. He pulled his keychain from his jeans' pocket, hitting a button's whose picture had worn off sometime in the last several months.

The duffle and the plastic bag fit between the sleeping bag and tent he never had the chance to unload from the camping trip. The red clay had long since washed from the Prius after weeks of rain. He shut the trunk with a heavy hand and waited for Colby and David to reappear.

A light breeze was pushing gray clouds 'cross the sky at a steady pace. Charlie pulled the door open and climbed in after he thought he felt a few stray drops. It was early still, not quite nine in the morning and Don was coming home today. He let his head rest on the steering wheel, half debating if one of the pillows in the back would be nice. He decided against it.

Charlie watched as David waved Colby back to the SUV while he jogged over to the Prius. An electronic buzz sounded as the window rolled down, "Charlie, we'll run this over to the house if you want to head back to UCLA."

"I'm not sure when we'll get back…" The professor pointed at the keys in Sinclair's hand. "The one with the green tape is the house key."

David was bent over, one arm on the top of the car, the other hand resting on the open window ledge, "Charlie, you get there when you get there. We'll have everything ready so don't worry about it."

Charlie nodded mutely as David squeezed his shoulder, "See you in a few."

The professor started his car, knew the FBI agents wouldn't leave until he did. He pulled away from the curb leaving the quiet neighborhood. It suddenly seemed so much later in the day than it was.

It had been a long three weeks. Probably longer for Don than anyone, he never really said anything, mostly just laid in bed with IVs and morphine. Charlie thought he looked worn out, more so than he could have imagined.

There had been three separate surgeries spread out over that time, Charlie couldn't remember what they were all for. He remembered that there were fixators, extra pins and a plate. Don was in pain and what it boiled down to was that his brother would be setting off metal detectors for quite sometime.

Doctor Rolfhaus said the other day that when the time came for Don to come home that it'd be easier for him to sleep in a recliner than a bed, not that he could really make it up the stairs anyways. Don had made some random token protest that his apartment had an elevator and a brown leather lazy boy. That was shot down before it could even be seriously considered. Instead, they offered to play musical chairs and let him set up house in the living room.

Don seemed to be expecting their venomous rebuttals though, seemed to be more toying with them than trying to get out on his own and away from the Craftsman. Charlie only became more suspiciously certain of this after Megan started coughing violently with a smirk on her face.

He peered up through the windshield at the spotty drops that hit the glass, occasionally urging him to flip on the wipers. He pulled towards the left lane, out from behind an older model pickup, accelerating as he went. The goal was to make good time, preferably before someone went AMA.

Charlie was getting tired of hospitals.

The accelerator went down even further as the lanes opened up and traffic thinned out. It was about time that they all went home.

_Numb3rs…Numb3rs…Numb3rs…_

A PS2 balanced on top the laptop case in contrast to a paper bag half filled with prescriptions and orthopedic socks with the extra thick padding on the bottoms. The small gym back was packed and sat on the bed along with instructions and pamphlets with titles like _What to Expect when You have a Broken Leg _and _Signs and Symptoms of Infection_. They lay fanned out like a deck of cards, ready for some sort of cheap Vegas trick.

Don Eppes wheeled his chair over to the chair in the corner, pulled the clean t-shirt over his head as he leaned slightly forward. The shirt was heather gray with a black Periodic Table gracing the front, _a Charles Eppes Classic_, and matched the navy blue athletic shorts and cast.

The plaster was covered with signatures, from both the CalSci crowd and the law enforcement types. When Charlie had arrived an hour before, he caught several of the nurses with sharpies in hand and a furious red color to his brother's face when he was found out.

The math professor watched from his casual seat on the other side, his feet were propped up on the unmade bed, his arms loosely folded behind his head. Charlie had tossed his brother the shirt, the FBI agent snorting when he read the front, "Not cool enough for you?" he asked.

Don raised an eyebrow, "No, its fine buddy." He pushed himself up a few inches with his arms and then resettled himself again, "Lot more stylin' than that hospital gown…"

Charlie nodded and Don propped a pair of crutches against the home bound luggage, "It'll be nice just to get out of here."

There was a wistfulness to his tone that caused Charlie for the briefest of moments to wonder what it'd be like to be able to read people better than he did, "I'm not going to be your nursemaid."

There was a low mutter and then a chuckle that turned to a painful wince as his brother massaged his upper thigh, "Oh yeah you are, Chuck. Megan's getting me one of those nice little bells and you're coming whenever I call."

Charlie rolled his eyes but didn't refute what his brother said because they both knew it was the truth. And if Don needed him to play manservant, that was okay. He could have been living out a much worse ending than this.

"I could strap one of those Saint Bernard whiskey barrels under my neck."

Don gave him a soft smile as he pushed himself forward and gave him a look that said maybe that wasn't such a bad idea as he pulled a sweatshirt on over his head. The brown hoodie was worn, something Charlie remembered vaguely from the Stockton years. He had grabbed it from Don's old closet this morning. It was chilly in Santa Monica with the winds coming in off the ocean and the rain still coming down.

"You're a regular Florence Nightingale, Chuck."

"That's Professor Nightingale to you," the mathematician said.

Charlie stood up in a quick motion, pulling Don's things together, handing off a small bundle for Don to rest in his lap, "The guys moved your chair over earlier." When his brother subtly chewed at his lower lip, he added, "Don't worry, they were careful."

The FBI agent nodded and fell quiet again. He opened the bag and tucked a dvd in the brown front pocket, quietly and unobtrusively. Charlie had noticed it earlier, saw it briefly before Don had closed the laptop several days before.

He had tried asking what it was, if he could see it. Don shrugged and said maybe some day but not right then. He wanted to know what was on it, why his brother seemed so melancholy after viewing it. And he nearly pushed it, nearly left the room with it until Alan said that some things were better off left alone.

The blue plastic teased him, ever so mockingly sticking a corner out in plain view from Don's sweatshirt. He almost asked again, yet Don was still too loopy on whatever came in those little brown bottles. It didn't seem fair to question him when he wasn't quite himself.

One of the nurses, Jenny or maybe it was Margie, Charlie couldn't remember which, came in with a few papers and had Don sign a few things. She patted him on the shoulder and gave him a shy flutter of a wave.

The younger Eppes had barely begun to raise his hands to signal touchdown when Don retorted, "Not a word, Chuck. Not a single word."

Don's elbows rested towards the ends of the gray padded arm rests, his face buried in his hands. He rubbed at his eyes, then abruptly, his whole demeanor changed. Don smiled and said, "Let's get Dad and break out of here."

"You're not leaving with out me, are you?" Both men looked up in unison as their father entered the room, "Ready to go?"

Don tipped a yellow carbon copy with one hand, "Got my marching orders right here." Charlie was sure he mumbled something about being as free as he could be under the circumstances. The professor let it slide. "Let's get out of here."

_Numb3rs…Numb3rs…Numb3rs…_

The sky was still overcast as Charlie set the car in park. The driveway was clear, the SUV and other cars were lined up along side the curb. He switched off the engine and glanced at the rearview mirror, "Maybe we should leave him here, Dad."

Alan turned himself around, "Out like a light."

Don's head was slumped against the door, his leg tucked between pillows and blankets, a few random mylar balloons bobbing back and forth. Charlie made a shushing sound and pulled out the teddy bear that had been left after one of many visits. He set it in his brother's arms and pulled out his cell phone at the same time.

"I really shouldn't let you do this," Alan whispered.

The subject in frame blinked his eyes open and the bear went flying as he tossed it toward the camera, "Yeah, you really shouldn't, Dad. Blackmailing a federal officer… That's a serious offense."

"That's what I hear," Alan said dryly. "Why don't we get you into the house, cowboy?"

"Giddy up," Don sighed as he yanked the crutches from their spot, wedged between the emergency brake and cup holders. He cracked open the door, gently edging his foot towards it, "Can't decide if this is Kansas or Oz."

"You're no Dorothy," Charlie offered him a hand up so he could get his balance. "Maybe the Tin Man?"

"Only if you're a flying monkey, _Chuck_," Don maneuvered himself forward, grunting as the crutch caught on a crack in the cement. "You're yellow brick road sucks by the way."

"I'll get on it first thing," He walked a couple of steps behind Don, his arms open at his sides anticipating any mis-steps.

Don paused halfway between the steps and the car and then started moving again, "Who's inside?"

"David and Colby for sure. That's Amita's car out there, I think Larry might have come with her. Megan too…"

"Munchkin Land," Don gritted his teeth as he hopped up one step. "And the frickin' Lollipop Guild is waiting inside."

"Don't forget the Lullaby League," Charlie frowned slightly. He had hoped that leaving the hospital would get Don out of his funk, kicking back with his friends, leaving the antiseptic air behind. "Hey, Auntie Em back there thought that a barbeque might be fun," he motioned at their father.

They made it on the front porch, Don waited for Charlie to get the door, the strain of the last few weeks aging him, "Look, Chuck," He waited for his brother to look him in the eye, "I appreciate this, I do. It's just…"

Charlie gave him a half grin tainted with sympathy, "I know, let's just get your leg up."

Don gimped his way through the door, "Say something like that in front of my team and you're dead."

"I love you too, Donnie."

Don chuckled and stepped into the foyer. _It was going to be a long couple of months…_

_Numb3rs…Numb3rs…Numb3rs…_

There were no steaks, instead hamburgers and ribs. Colby and David tag-teamed the grill after the rain started again, everyone else without broken limbs hauling ass to get the potato salad and the rest of the food indoors.

Don gave a contented sigh as Megan handed him a coke and seconds on the ribs, "I could get use to this."

The profiler set her water on the coffee table and drew her feet under her on the couch, "I don't think you have much choice not too…"

_And introducing Megan Reeves as Glinda the Good Witch of the North…_

"Charlie and Dad won't let me forget," Don pulled a prescription bottle from his pocket and downed a pill with his coke. "Damn thing won't stop throbbing. And if you ask how I'm doing, I won't be responsible for my actions."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Don," she said. Megan swirled her glass, the ice cubes clinking against the sides, "I brought by the Hunley case files. Figured you'd want to look them over."

The file was thick with testimonies and photographs, "You've got a heart of gold, Reeves."

"That's what Larry tells me. Except he says that my eyes refract light in a way that Snell couldn't adequately quantify." Her tone was sly and flirtatious, as she passed the papers over to Don, "We're going to the Griffith Observatory tonight."

He had to say that he never saw that relationship coming, but he also could say that he had never seen his second in command so happy in the last year he had known her, "Glad to hear its going well."

"You have no idea."

Don knew when Megan was being facetious, knew when she was pulling a fast one. He knew it wasn't either, "That serious, huh?"

"We're taking it slow," Megan pulled a carrot stick from Don's plate. "I don't think Larry likes to take things too quickly."

He slapped her hands away, "He does feed you, right?"

"Ethiopian," she said in a way that was both pleased and still a little surprised.

"Damn Megan, way to be." Don raised his can to her glass, "Nice to hear something good's going on around here."

"Aww… Look at you going all glass-half-full on me, Don," she lightly punched him in the arm.

He teasingly waved the prescription bottle in front of her face, "I have my reasons." Don handed his plate to her so she could set it on the coffee table for him. "And that's why I transferred from Fugitive Recovery to Albuquerque."

Megan frowned at the non-sequiter until she saw David and Colby amble over, both laden with desserts. She gave Don a quiet_ thank you_ as he winked his _you're welcome_.

David seated himself next to Megan, Colby on the arm chair near the window, "So how's Theismann doing over here?"

"Megan fill you in on Lawrence Taylor or were we gonna go with Harry Carson for Hunley?"

David made a show of thinking deeply before replying, "Carson, definitely Carson."

Don gave his profiler a 'help me' sort of look, "You guys ever going to drop this?"

"Maybe," Colby handed over a slice of peach pie. "But now that you're not on your death bed…"

Don picked up the fork balanced on the edge of the paper plate. The pie was warm and the whip cream on top slowly oozed out towards the edges as it melted, "Yeah, yeah, I see how it is."

He situated the plate on his right thigh, the warmth pacifying the ache there, "I wanted to thank you guys…" Don's eyes said more than his mouth did and his team picked up on that.

"You're not going to get all mushy on us now," Colby tossed Don a napkin, gave him a look that acknowledged his sentiments. "How are the Dodgers holding up."

Don tossed him the remote and waved them to the television. His brother wandered in the room, sitting with his back leaned up against the side of the recliner. Alan came in with the French press full of Vienna roast and Larry with a tray full of mugs.

The rain kept falling outside, a little harder now than earlier. Amita came running through the front door, a gallon of ice cream in either hand. Her hair was wet and dripping down the back of her black gauzy tank. Charlie offered her a blanket and his Dad took the dessert to the kitchen, asking who wanted any on the way.

Don was far too warm, too comfortable for something that cold right now. Maybe later, he thought. Right now he was good. Colby had started a fire and the flames flickered off the screen way out in left field.

His team was up by two and he really hoped it stayed that way. He had a feeling that he probably wouldn't stay awake long enough to find out though. Eyelids were growing heavy and the medication was kicking in. Don pulled the blanket a little higher and drifted off.

Somewhere in the background Eric Gagne hit a homer, upping the lead by another two. Don was almost sure he heard his Dad asking if he wanted ice cream before Charlie waved him off, resting a hand on his good knee.

He was beginning to think that maybe his time off wouldn't be that bad after all.


	15. Finale

A/N - Well here it is folks! The last chapter. Thank you all for each of you who have reviewed and for all of you for sticking with me and reading this through to the end.

Its been fun...

* * *

"…_**And the night shall be filled with music**_

_**And the cares, that infest the day,**_

_**Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,**_

_**And as silently steal away..."**_

_-The Day is Done, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

* * *

_What goes around comes around. The circle of life. Déjà vu. Da capo. Da capo al fine. Da capo al coda. Dal Segno…_

There were a million terms and clichés and yet he still couldn't figure out why he was here. The pedals were awkward, the heavy cast still in the way as he shifted his right foot so his left could have access. It wasn't the proper footing, _pedaling. _

It worked well enough.

_Repeat from the beginning… Repeat back from the sign…_

The treble cleft blurred ever the slightest. He wiped his hand across his eyes, pushing down ever so stronger on the metal bar, the notes blending, echoing across the space. The air was stifled, the small practice room, basement level, was not much on ventilation.

He had not played _accompagnato,_ accompaniment, in many years. She had suggested Dvorak's G flat Major Humoresque to begin with. Nothing too difficult, instead full of fun and whimsy, sounding more like a day spent playing in the park between thunderstorms than anything.

They had moved on to several pieces after that, finding a tempo and rhythm, discovering the other's talents and style. She paused, the A string had suddenly gone out of tune. Marina apologized, said the string was new and not nearly properly stretched yet.

She asked him to hit the A and so Don did, several times. Marina steered clear of the pegs at the top of her violin, instead tweaked the fine tuners, small metal knobs that vaguely pass for screws. She set the instrument down, pulled out the rosin from the case and rubbed down her bow again.

Don felt his fingers dancing once more. Playing the Humoresque was like skipping, it was almost a dance as he worked his way through the first several meters and then repeated it again through to the coda. In the next movement, the mood changed to sort of a mournful sigh. It wasn't a lament or an ululation, really more a sense of deep longing, a whiff of melancholy that made his fingers linger over the keys.

Marina must have been happy with the tuning. She began to play softly in the background, taking what Dvorak wrote and bending it in another way, towards free style and notes never played. She let him lead, following steadily and searching out harmony. His fingers stumbled, a harsh note sounded out uncertainly, then melted into the background as he played out a broken chord.

_A broken chord..._

One or two notes played at a time instead of all of them at once. It bridged from the Dvorak to an unnamed composition the two were writing into thin air. Don played the same notes again. And again. The violin trilled in the background, those notes an octave higher than his own.

Don smiled. The skipping was gone and the mournful cry also disappeared. They were stuck somewhere in a dream song, _comodo con larghezza..._Comfortable, an easy moderate speed with a broad scope, wide brush strokes over an open canvas. He was flying and his broken leg was still on the ground.

He fell into a steady repetition of sounds, his left hand holding out on a chord, the right fingers running over the keys, over and over and over. Marina played them as well, then transposed them toward a melody, picking up where he left off.

They play well together, he thought. The instruments segued off in separate ways, but nothing too far apart. Charlie would say they're like parallel lines, going the same way on two different scenic routes. For a moment they both hit the same D, she went north as he played south. Parallel wasn't quite right then, Don realized. And neither was perpendicular. They just were.

He closed his eyes and let the sounds guide him to where he should go next. One note fed into another, then another. He was John Cassavetes, creating something without knowing the end from where he stood.

Marina had come by earlier that day, had pulled up to the Craftsman in an old Volkswagen Bug the color of a melting dreamsicle. He propped his crutches between his legs and she drove them out to the Valencia sector of Santa Clarita.

"It is good to see you smile," she said.

Don turned his face from the road, the breeze from the open windows and pulled down his aviators, "Feels good to get out of Pasadena."

The _paseos_ that stretched across Valencia's roads were dotted with pedestrians and an occasional biker, spandex and not leather.

She grinned, eyes not leaving the road and instead patted his knee with light affection, "I think the time there has done you good."

He had thought so too. In a few weeks he'd go back to the office, sitting on his desk for half a day. For now he gimped around between physical therapy and doctor visits, questions still lingered if he needed another operation. His leg had been shattered and it was ever so slowly coming back together.

"Thanks for this," he said. "I needed to get out."

The right blinker ticked softly as she made the turn, "Charlie has babysat you?"

"I wish it was that." Don liked her jumbled grammar, didn't bother to correct her, "Amita hasn't learned how sneak out quietly."

Marina's brow wrinkled and then smoothed as realization dawned on her face, "And you have first seat in house, _da_?"

"Bingo," he replied. The young professor had been lucky too, he thought. His Glock had been locked away in the gun case, far out of reach from his spot in the recliner by the fire place.

Her shoulders shook with quiet laughter as she pulled into a parking stall near a beige stucco building. Don propped the door open and hauled himself upward from the low seat. He felt like freakin' Goldilocks. Everything was either too high or to low, to flat or pavement too broken to walk on.

The walkway was a smooth concrete, winding paths that looked as if they were designed by students rather than ground keepers. He balanced the blue Jansport on his back and followed her through the heavy oak doors.

"Every Tuesday night?"

She pushed the elevator's down button as she thumped the violin case against her legs, "_Da_, every Tuesday for two years."

Don acknowledged her answer with a soft grunt, "Wish I would've been there." He shifted on the crutches and then hopped through the waiting door as Marina held the elevator for him.

"You are here now, _priyatel_. That is enough."

_Numb3rs…Numb3rs…Numb3rs…_

Charlie watched from the window as Don and Marina left the thirty year old Bug behind. It was early evening and the house light cast shadows along the drive, lengthening the rhododendrons across the lawn.

It was midsummer now, almost July and just as warm. He had spent the day with lesson plans and some research. He was behind where he wanted to be with his Cognitive Emergence work, less chalk dust in his lungs than normal. There was something in him that was proud that he slowed down, smelled the roses, took care of his brother.

First time in a month and a half that he had let Don out of his sight.

The papers in his hand were rumpled and clammy from being held so tightly. The ink was smearing and he could no longer make out if that was a seven or maybe a two. Charlie pulled the pen from behind his ear, glanced at the equation and definitively wrote down a five.

There were certain benefits to being a human calculator.

He watched as his brother balanced on one foot, throwing the bag over his shoulder and then his arm out for balance as he stumbled. Twenty years fell away as Marina kept him from falling to gravity as Charlie remembered doting cheerleaders after a doubleheader and a stray ball left a black eye.

Don was always the cool one, he thought. And even now, that had not changed with age, the proof in the backpack with the single diagonal chest strap versus the standard double. The shadowed figures walked slowly to the house, one with a halting steady pace, the other with a slower, more fluid one.

From his spot at the window, hidden by curtains, he could hear two voices talking softly and then a short bark of laughter. He moved a little to the left to gain a better view as the musician kissed his brother on each cheek in a European fashion and squeezed his arm as she hurried down the stairs and back to her car.

The professor stepped back to the dining room and then up the stairs. After all, he still liked to spy on his brother. At least now his legs were long enough so he no longer got caught at it.

The solarium grew dusky as the sun fell back behind the earth. Charlie flipped on a couple of lamps, set his work down on the sofa by the window. He held a piece of chalk tightly, studied the lone blackboard carefully. First Alan, then Don and now even Amita teased him about how his work threatened all the free spaces of the house. So he had dragged two of the chalkboards back down to the garage just a few minutes before. A belated effort to keep the mess at least partially contained.

Charlie made a show of thinking deeply when really his mind was a floor down and a room over. He knew his dad was setting the table, that Don would be fussed over and shrugging off attention. The professor wiped at his eyes furiously. For so long, they treated him like glass. They had to, for Don was broken and still was.

The voices were louder now, they sounded good-natured and teasing. Charlie threw the chalk back on the rail, cleaned the white dust from his hands. Don was stronger now, better than he was yet with such a long ways to go.

He found that he no longer needed to force a smile on his face when he saw the cast and the crutches. Dorothy made it back to Kansas from Oz. And after all the amazing things there, still decided that there was nothing else better than home.

Charlie tapped his Nikes and headed down the stairs.

_Numb3rs…Numb3rs…Numb3rs…_

The front door opened and Don called out if there was anyone home. No one answered and from where he stood, could see the dining room table set from the entryway, the crystal goblets reflecting amber light and the china softly gleaming. It looked like a holiday magazine or maybe a Pottery Barn catalogue.

"_Gee Wally, that's swell…"_

Don debated between sitting at the table or maybe one of the more comfortable arm chairs. Dinner would be ready soon and his arms were tired, so he made his way to the closest dining room chair.

"There you are," there was a white threadbare towel hanging off Alan's arm as he set another bubbling lasagna on the table. One that would not be interrupted by an urgent call. "Thought I heard a car pull up."

Don smiled at his father's politeness. Marina's car was loud, needed a new muffler and something else to run properly. And she had the money for repairs until she put it all down on a payment for a viola. She said she would rather take the bus.

"We ready?" Don propped his crutches against the table in easy reach, trading them for a lone piece of beef teasing him from the pan.

Alan didn't have the heart to knock the fork from Don's hands, "Soon as your brother shows up." He finished placing the silverware, "You could have invited her to stay."

"I did, you know. She has practice tonight." Don licked at the sauce that had dripped on his finger, "This is good, Dad."

"You don't have to sound so surprised," Alan said. He flipped the towel over his shoulder and called up the stairs, "Any time now, Charlie!"

Don leaned back in his chair and threw his arm around the back of the chair next to his, catching a slight breeze as Charlie dashed in the room. He gave a slight grin at the milk Alan poured into each of their glasses.

"What? It's good for you."

"Hey, did I say anything?"

Alan raised his eyebrows, "You didn't have to."

His smile was brighter that time and Charlie's mouth had quirked up into a grin. The mood was light and the lighting warm. His younger brother raised his glass and the sound of the toast lazed between conversation and meal.

Don flexed his fingers and let his attention wander. Between his brother and his father, he could see the piano in the corner. His gaze lingered on the keys, surprised when he realized the cover was off the ivories, leaving them in plain view.

He caught his father's eye. Alan shrugged, not enough for Charlie to notice. Yet Don did, and also saw the question that maybe some time his eldest could play for him.

_Numb3rs...Numb3rs...Numb3rs..._

The table was cleared now, the chairs pushed back and away. There were lights on in the garage, accompanied by frenzied thought and care. Don gave a sigh, marked his page and set the book on the coffee table next to him.

When he was in-between surgeries, someone had left it at his bedside as a joke. It was a thick volume, heavy and hard-covered. _Crime and Punishment. _The prank ended up a godsend because his recovery would be at least as long as it would take him to get through Dostoevsky's masterpiece.

Don left behind duality and pawnbrokers and hoisted himself up. The lower floor was quiet now, wasn't sure where the others had disappeared to. He thought of his father's silent request, the open keyboard and slowly tugged the bench from it's spot halfway under the piano.

He _liked_ this piano. There was something about playing an instrument that he knew so well that meant so much more than playing one he'd just been introduced to. He knew it's kinks and quirks, knew which keys liked to stick and which ones liked to go flat or sharp as the weather changed. The familiarity was beautiful and its voice unique unto itself.

_It was like playing ball with home field advantage..._

He placed his hands, right thumb on Middle C. Playing the notes one after another, Don heard a series of footsteps down the stairs. He thought about calling out to his father but instead broke into the Moonlight Sonata to let Alan think that he still possessed stealth.

_You are a musician, Agent Eppes..._

Perhaps he was, he thought. And perhaps he was at a new beginning. The music had been a long time coming. The sound of the piano in the corner void for many of the past years.

Don could hear the door in the kitchen close now, another set of feet quieting as they drew closer to the song. It was an Eppes thing, Don decided. The sneaking around, the silent witnesses. The decision to not say what should be or ask for what was needed.

So he continued on, playing in the dark, the soft moonlight giving him the dark shapes and forms in the room. His father was on the stairs and Charlie was perched somewhere in the kitchen and he was there, in the center of it all.

_I know the voices dying with a dying fall_

_Beneath the music from a farther room._

_So how should I presume?_

The music played on through the night.


End file.
